


Plain and Tall

by destielpasta, mtothedestiel



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Historical, Angst, Bisexual Dean Winchester, Catholic Castiel, Catholic Character, Demisexual Dean Winchester, Domestic, Drifter Castiel, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Found Family, Homesteading, Hurt/Comfort, Internalized Homophobia, Kid Fic, Little House on the Prairie - Freeform, M/M, Nesting, Post-Civil War, Roman Catholicism, Sarah Plain and Tall - Freeform, Sexually Fluid Castiel, Single Parent Dean, Slow Build, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-10
Updated: 2016-10-10
Packaged: 2018-08-20 10:48:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 69,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8246228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/destielpasta/pseuds/destielpasta, https://archiveofourown.org/users/mtothedestiel/pseuds/mtothedestiel
Summary: Dean is a Kansas farmer who only wants to work his land and care for his infant daughter.  With his wife gone and his brother moving on to a life beyond the homestead, Dean finds himself in need of another pair of hands.  Castiel, a lonely drifter freshly arrived in town, may prove the solution to Dean’s troubles.  Over the course of four seasons, the two men face the everyday challenges of prairie life, and learn to overcome the betrayals of their past to discover a new definition of family.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> The idea for this fic was born out of a snowy winter evening where our enthusiasm for prairie-centered historical fiction and Deancas came to a crashing head. We have done our best to provide a historically accurate story, while also creating a fictitious haven for our favorite characters. All errors are purely by accident. 
> 
> This fic somewhat deals with the fallout of prior relationships Dean and Cas have had through the use of flashbacks. If you would like to know the nature of these flashbacks please reach out to either of us through our tumblrs: [Destielpasta](http://www.destielpasta.tumblr.com) or [Summersteve](http://www.summersteve.tumblr.com) . We would be happy to answer any questions. 
> 
> This is Destielpasta's third completed story for the Deancas Big Bang Challenge, and Mtothedestiel's first. Regardless, we both want to thank the mods for setting up this amazing challenge. Also, thank you to [Museaway](http://www.museaway.com/) for being our wonderful beta, keeping us honest, and providing us with sexy em dashes where appropriate. Thank you also to [Willbakefordean](http://willbakefordean.tumblr.com/) for constant cheerleading and for squeeing in all the correct places. 
> 
> Thank you to our artist [Lythea](http://www.lythea.tumblr.com) for her wonderful contributing art. Find the art masterpost [here](http://lythea.tumblr.com/post/151620789361/art-for-plan-and-tall#notes).
> 
> And lastly, thank you so much for taking the time to read our story. Please remember that comments are not only appreciated, they are cherished.
> 
> [P.S. Hi, mtothedestiel in particular here! This work has held my passion for almost a year, and this pairing for many years before that. This may prove to be the last Destiel fic I ever write (how things change without us realizing!), and as such there's no co-author I'm happier and prouder to have shared it with than my best friend, destielpasta. Thank you, all my readers old and new, for your support, praise, and helpful criticism. I hope you enjoy my first and final DCBB, and as always, thanks for reading ;)]

Dean pauses his trudge through the prairie grass to tip his hat back and wipe away the dust and sweat that's threatening to sting his eyes. With a worn-out gust of breath, Dean hitches the near empty canvas sack of grain more easily across his shoulder and continues up the well-worn path towards hearth and home.

It's almost suppertime, and the tension in his shoulders begins to settle at the sight of his well-worn but homey farmhouse, standing proud at the crest of what could only be called a hill in a state as flat as Kansas. The heat of summer is well and truly upon them, and he’s spent the whole day under the sun, with the prickling burn on the back of his neck to prove it.

Still, a half-acre would hardly have been worth rigging up Jet and Baby to the seed drill, despite the ache in his lower back from a long day hand planting their feed oats for the winter.

Approaching the main house Dean can soon hear the distinct cries of his newborn daughter. Emma is just two months old as of yesterday, and exercising her lungs is still the little lady’s sole means of alerting him and his wife to her needs. 

He walks on at a steady pace, and Emma’s wailing continues uninterrupted. The window shutters hang open to tempt a breeze, and he cranes his neck to look for the swishing skirts of his wife tending to their daughter. Nothing. Lydia should be starting supper by now, and Emma’s crib is hardly ten feet from the stove. It wouldn't be too much trouble to take a minute and soothe her. Dean quickens his pace, dropping his canvas sack against the house when he reaches the door. He gives it a nudge. It opens, unlatched. 

Lydia doesn’t like him in the house before he washes up, but Emma is crying. He yanks his boots off at the front door and crosses the threshold barefoot, wiping his hands on his handkerchief as he approaches the wooden crib in the corner of the great room. 

Lydia is nowhere to be seen, and Emma is protesting something fierce from the confines of her crib. Her face is red and scrunched, green eyes reduced to an irritated squint as she thrashes about in the small space.

“Hi, baby girl,” Dean coos, lifting her from the crib. Emma hiccups, squirming.“What’s the matter, huh?Where’s mama?”

Dean tucks her against his shoulder, bouncing gently until Emma’s cries peter out into a few soft whimpers. The unnatural quiet of the house becomes apparent. The clock on the mantelpiece ticks. The floorboards creak when Dean shifts his weight. Other than that, silence. 

“Lydia?” No reply. Dean frowns. Maybe his wife is lying down. Ever since Emma was born Lydia’s taken to sleeping more than usual. She’ll spend all evening in her chair, a book limp in her lap, staring into the middle distance with glassy eyes. Dean’s attempts to rouse her spirits with a joke or a song, or lure her down with him to the floor to play with Emma on one of his mother’s old quilts have been for naught. He’s thought about calling the doctor more than once. 

Still rocking Emma, Dean pushes aside the embroidered curtain that separates their bedroom from the main room of the house. He tenses up. The double bed is empty, their wedding quilt folded neatly back over the straw tick mattress. He lets the curtain fall back into place.

“Where’s mama, Emma?” Dean wonders aloud, keeping his voice light for her sake while a keen sense of dread takes root in his belly. He puts his hand to the stove.It’s almost cold.

Dean lifts the latch of the lean-to door and steps out onto packed earth. He half expects to find his wife collapsed against the water pump, but the barnyard is empty. 

“Lydia?” he calls again, “Honey, are you out here? The baby was crying.”

The chickens scold him from their wire enclosure, but there’s no reply otherwise. Dean takes a closer look at the hen house, Emma cooing over his shoulder. Brown speckled eggs still dot each nest. 

He checks the cistern in the middle of the yard. There are a few drops still clinging to the lip of the cast iron spout, but the earth is almost dry beneath it. No one has used the pump since Dean washed his face at dawn.

Dean returns to the house. Emma starts squirming again, returning Dean’s anxiety in kind.Where in the hell is Lydia Winchester? She isn’t in the house, or the yard. If she’s in the barn she would have heard Dean call. If she had gone out into the fields Dean would have noticed her on his way back to the house. Maybe she’s gone for a walk. 

And left the baby all alone with an unlocked door?

Maybe they’ve been robbed. Strangers, come from the back end of the property where Dean couldn’t see to steal his wife away when she wouldn’t let them take what they wanted. 

With no screams? No ruckus? Dean checks their valuables. His father’s gun, still mounted on the wall. His mother’s porcelain angel, still resting on the mantel beside the dim sepia toned portrait taken of their family in Dean’s childhood. The coffee tin tucked between the Bible and his mother’s primer, still nearly full of Dean’s careful savings. 

Nothing is out of place. Nothing is missing. Except Lydia.

Emma’s squirming is interrupted by a frustrated wail. 

“Shhh, honey,” Dean coaxes her, “It’s alright.”

His daughter is not to be consoled, and for lack of ideas Dean returns her to her crib, hushing and humming to her as he smooths the rumpled quilt that lines her bed. Emma kicks, a displeased squall accompanying the fat tears streaking down her cheeks. Her cotton dress is all caught up under her. 

“Hang on, Half-pint,” Dean murmurs, “We’re gonna work all this out, you just gotta cooperate for a minute.”

He manages to get the loose infant gown untangled, and smooths the quilt down under his daughter.More comfortable, Emma settles down a little bit.Dean tries to straighten out the rest of the quilt.It’s the same quilt that Dean slept on as an infant; the same crib.

“How’d you managed to get this bed so mussed up, huh?”Dean asks Emma, who squawks in reply. How long has Emma been in the house alone? The quilt is pulled away from the edges of the tiny down mattress, revealing the thin muslin that holds the stuffing in. It’s bunched into a lumpy tangle near the head of the crib. 

Matter of fact, it’s _too_ bunched.Emma couldn’t have reached it lying on her back. 

Still cooing to Emma Dean pulls on the scrunched up quilt edge.The lump unfolds to reveal a thick glass nursing bottle, not unlike what Dean had used to feed the calf Betsy had rejected last spring. 

“What in the hell-” 

The clock chimes on the mantelpiece.Dean glances up and catches a slip of white tucked behind the family heirloom. 

An envelope. An explanation. Some emergency must have taken Lydia to town. Help needed with a birth, or a friend taken ill.

Dean plucks the unsealed letter from the mantel and he frowns, hope tempered.

There’s an extra weight in one corner of the envelope. When Dean pulls the letter free whatever it is slides out of the folded paper. Something small with a gold shine that hits the floor with a clink. 

Dean bends down to pick up Lydia’s wedding ring, holds it in his open palm, and thinks he might be sick.

It was his mother’s engagement ring. The tiny diamond solitaire that John Winchester saved and starved himself to buy, so that he could have something to offer Mary besides a dream in the West and a life of hard work. The ring that Dean had given to Lydia in good faith, ‘til death do they part.

They had been a good match. Everyone said so. His _father_ had said so.

After some few moments Dean unfolds the letter. Lydia’s betrayal is written in her perfect blackboard script.

 

_Dean,_

_I can’t do it anymore._

_Emma will survive without me now, and so will you._

_I only used my own money to buy the ticket, and I left our wedding gifts, so we owe each other nothing._  

_Lydia_

 

Dean’s vision blurs before he reaches the signature line.His knuckles have gone white, crumpling the paper between his fingers. 

_I can’t do it anymore._

Rage, disbelief, and shame war inside him.

_We owe each other nothing._

Emma gurgles from her crib.


	2. Autumn

Cas steps onto the train platform, the departing whistle blasting in his ears. The train pulls away, and his head spins while he adjusts to solid ground. For days, he had only known the constant sway and rattle of the train, and he moves to the side as fellow travelers kick up prairie dust around him. Summer clings to the air and he whips off his hat, running a hand through his sweat-damp hair. It stays put when he moves his hand away, and he wonders how long it’s been since he had a proper bath. 

He nods at strangers as they pass by, offering a tight-lipped smile despite his exhaustion. The prairie isn’t a place where you make yourself a stranger, not if you want work, and he’s ridden the rails until the majority of his money ran out. He swallows despite his dry throat, wishing for a drink of water that will have to wait, and shoulders his knapsack.

He squints at a calendar posted behind the depot clerk’s desk. September 15, 1870. He takes a deep breath.

He follows the crowd out of the depot, mostly men like himself passing by in a hurry; laborers looking for harvest work in one of the most prosperous areas of Kansas territory. To him, Ava seemed as good a town as any. He walks down main street, taking note of a busy blacksmith and tannery, and a tavern named Harvelle’s. More than a few of the men head in that direction, no doubt looking for a drink after a long ride. Children play outside a two-story schoolhouse before the day begins, flanked by a tall, steepled church that towers above the false-faced buildings, whitewashed to a gleaming finish. 

His hand itches, and he looks around, searching for the heart of all wild-west towns.

He finds it as soon as he starts looking: the town store, this one titled “Moore’s General Store.” It’s the most structured building in town besides the church, with an honest-to-God two floors rather than the typical false-fronts of the other buildings. He ascends to a low porch, before ducking into the cool shade of the store.

The walls are lined with shelves carrying an assortment of dry goods, along with barrels of grain and even one of pickles. Bolts of colorful cloth cover the wall behind a low counter next to shelves of sewing supplies that reach the ceiling. A young woman woman with golden hair sits behind the counter, her face open and welcoming.

Cas whips his hat off, remembering himself. “Hello, Miss.”

She smiles. “Good morning! How are you today?”

“Just fine, and you?” Cas stumbles, never comfortable with the level of smalltalk expected of him in small towns. 

She seems to notice, and takes pity on him. “I’m doing very well, thank you. Is there anything I can help you with today?”

He starts to fish through his pockets for his meager amount of money. “Pack of tobacco, please, and three sheets of paper.”

She smiles, politely keeping her eyes away from his fumbling. “Will you be needing a pencil or ink to go with your paper?”

Cas finally locates his money, haphazardly counting out his few coins on the counter before replying. “Yes? A pencil please.”

“Coming right up,” she says, turning around to grab a tin of tobacco from the shelf before reaching under the counter for the paper and a thin pencil. Cas doesn’t smoke, but most men do. Gives you something to offer, and having something to offer often leads to conversation that leads to work. 

The paper, well, that’s for him. 

Cas looks up to see the woman looking expectantly at him, as if she had just said something was waiting for his reply.

“Oh, I apologize–”

She laughs, and it’s a warm sound. “Please don’t, I was only making small talk. I just asked if you were new to Ava.”

“Yes,” Cas says while she slips his purchases into a thin paper bag. “I was hoping to find work here. For the season, you see.”

“You shouldn’t have too much trouble, it being harvest time and all…” she trails off, as if in thought, her hand still grasping the paper bag. 

“Would you–” he starts, and she snaps out of her stupor, “Do you know of any work in particular?”

“Well, small town, we tend to know each other’s business,” she says with a grin, handing him her bag. “I have a friend–well this friend’s brother is all alone for the harvest, he might need some help.”

Cas nods, waiting for the inevitable. 

“You understand though,” she continues, “We tend to keep to ourselves in Ava, he might not be keen on a stranger who’s just passing through.”

“I do understand.” Cas slides the money toward her. It makes a scraping sound against the wood. 

“I _do_ hope you enjoy your time in Ava,” she wishes him, her voice back to its original brightness. “And good luck!”

Cas tips his hat and smiles before grabbing his purchases and heading for the door. He's just tasting the the dusty Kansas air when light footsteps come up behind him. 

“Wait!” the shop girl calls, meeting him on the front porch. “Head down to the tavern. Ellen might have some work for you.”

He smiles. “That's very appreciated, Miss–”

She waves his praise away with a fluttery hand. “Don't thank me yet, it's likely the work isn't permanent. But in the meantime–I'll talk to my friend about something on his brother’s farm, if I get a positive report about you from Ellen, that is.”

Cas nods, enjoying the newfound lightness in his shoulders. “I really can't thank you enough, Miss– ?”

“Jessica Moore.” She holds out a hand. “Tell Ellen I sent you, Mr.– ?" 

He shakes her hand, her grip confident. “Novak. Cas Novak.”

 

* * *

 

_Dean’s hand just brushes the soft cotton of Lydia’s nightgown and she jumps under his touch, then blushes._

_“Sorry,” she whispers, “It probably goes without saying, but I’ve never done this before.”_

_“Me neither,” Dean confesses, “We’ll figure it out together, huh?”_

_Lydia giggles.It’s an easy sound that Dean looks forward to hearing more.Carefully, he reaches forward again, and rests his hand around the curve of Lydia’s waist.Without all the fuss and corsets she’s so soft; Dean thinks it must be a sin to even lay a finger on her, but this is the purest thing there is–Touches between a man and wife._

_Dean traces the warm curve of her all the way up to her shoulder, and down her arm, drawing her hand to his lips._

_“If-if I hurt you,” Dean murmurs, kissing her fingers, “Or even just scare you, you tell me.I won’t be angry.”_

_Lydia nods, gone quiet.Cautious, she pulls Dean’s hand back to her nightgown, pressing his palm against her ribs and guiding him up, up, until..._

_Dean’s breath hitches as he cups Lydia’s breast through the thin cotton.He draws his thumb over her nipple and she gasps.Dean shudders as he hardens in his drawers, the material growing tight over his arousal._

_“Can I—”_

_“Yes.”_

_Dean shifts closer, kneeling over his wife.Heart racing, he leans down and presses a kiss to Lydia’s mouth, kneading at her breast.Her lips part against his, and they share their first kiss beyond the chaste exchange made in front of the reverend that morning._

_Taken by the sweet warmth of Lydia’s mouth against his, Dean slowly,_ slowly _, lowers himself until he’s flush against her.Covering her, as the quilt covers them both in the marriage bed.Lydia makes a soft sound against his lips.She shifts beneath him, the first friction against his arousal and Dean shudders.His kisses grow more heated, missing Lydia’s mouth and arcing down her neck, but when Lydia goes tense Dean slows himself._

_Gentle.He must be gentle._

_Dean undoes the top buttons of Lydia’s nightgown so his lips can reach more of her smooth skin.Her thighs are parted around his hips, and Dean reaches down until he can clasp his hand around her calf, sliding up to her thigh and beyond, underneath her gown to feel for the heat in between her legs._

_Lydia gasps when he reaches her warm folds. “What—”_

_“Shh,” Dean coaxes, still stroking back and forth, “It’ll make it better.Easier.”_

_Dean kisses at Lydia’s throat and works his fingers between her thighs until her cheeks grow flushed and Dean feels wetness at his fingertips._

_He pulls his hand away and lift the hem of Lydia’s nightgown, slowly working the material up until it pools around her hips.Lydia pulls her knees together, trying to cover herself out of instinct._

_Dean laughs, soft.He runs his hand over the fine hair on her thigh and guides her back open to him.“Easy now.Gotta make a little room for me, honey.”_

_“Guess I married a man with a smart mouth,” Lydia says breathlessly.Dean laughs again, and kisses her.He can feel the heat of her sex against him, only his drawers between them now, and his breath quickens.He fumbles with the hem of the plain cotton shorts, tugging them down and away._

_There’s nothing now.Nothing between them.Dean adjusts, widens his knees, pushes in—_

_“Oh,” he gasps into the curve of Lydia’s cheek.She’s so warm and wet around him.It’s unlike anything he’s ever felt._

_Dean thrusts forward out of pure instinct and Lydia cries out._

_“Are you alright?” he asks, pulling back to look his wife in the eyes, “Did I hurt you?”_

_Lydia laughs, though Dean can see a slight pinch between her eyebrows that he doesn’t like._

_“No,” Lydia assures him, delicate hands cupping his face, “A girl notices when her husband stakes his claim is all.”_

_Dean is hesitant, but Lydia kisses him and scratches her nails through the short hair at the base of his scalp, sending a shiver down his spine.She moves against him, trying to coax him deeper inside._

_With a groan Dean capitulates and rocks into her again.Lydia sighs, her fingers tightening against the back of his neck, but when Dean checks her eyes are bright and her lips are parted in what could even be pleasure.Assured of his wife’s comfort Dean wraps his arms around her and tries his best to work into a steady rhythm._

_He comes too soon, but Lydia seems to expect this, and once the white haze of pleasure settles Dean’s ears burn to think of the ladies of town tittering about wedding night performances._

_Dean is careful when he separates them, checking for blood and finding only the barest trace of pink.He’s careful as he resettles Lydia’s nightgown, hands light against her thighs and chest.They’re shy with each other again, now that the deed is done, but Lydia smiles at him, and grants him a kiss before he blows out the kerosene lamp beside the bed and tucks himself in close behind her._

_Dean falls asleep with his nose pressed into his wife’s hair._

_When he awakens the room is cold, and Lydia is curled away from him, pressed to the edge of the mattress._

_“Honey?”_

_Dean reaches for his wife only to have Lydia flinch away.She turns, and Dean is horrified to see his gentle touches reflected back at him as livid bruises.Lydia’s expression is one of plain hatred._

_“I didn’t want this.”_

_“No,” Dean denies, scrabbling away, “I didn’t.I could never—”_

_Lydia’s features smooth into frightening indifference._

_“I didn’t want_ you _.”_

_Lydia opens one hand over the chasm between them and her wedding ring drops into the folds of the red and gold quilt on the bed, lost forever.She rises and leaves the room without a second glance._

_From the main room Emma begins to cry, and Dean races out of the bedroom to find an empty crib.The cries grow louder._

_“Lydia?” he calls, but she’s nowhere to be found.“Emma?_ Emma _—_ ”

 

Dean wakes up with his daughter’s name on his lips and a death grip on his bed covers.Once his heart settles and he can shake himself out of the dream turned nightmare, he realizes Emma _is_ crying in the main room.It’s likely what woke him a few minutes before the rooster is due to crow. 

Unlike his nightmare Emma’s cries are not that of a lost and terrified child, but the irritated cries of a babe who is awake now and would like her pa to wake up now also, please and thank you.

Dean kicks back his quilt and rolls out of bed with a groan.He stretches the kinks out of his spine and splashes his face with some water from the small basin he’d filled last night. Creased slightly from sweat and hard work, he and his shirt will be thankful for laundry day, but until then the brown calico will do for around the farm. It doesn’t take his Sunday best to prep the land for harvest, and Emma doesn’t yet have any lady-like proprietary notions when it comes to Dean’s economical laundering.

As presentable as he cares to be in the privacy of his own home, Dean pushes aside the curtain that blocks the bedroom doorway from the rest of the house and greets his daughter, still noisily demanding his presence from the crib John Winchester made with his own two hands years ago.

Emma is growing fast.Dean lifts her easily from her crib, but she's near twice the size as the helpless infant that Dean had tried to comfort that dark day almost two months ago.His baby girl is all personality now, making Dean laugh with her funny faces and conversational baby babble.She's also got an ornery streak a mile wide, though in fairness that's definitely a Winchester trait, so it ain't her fault.Besides, nothing eases up Emma’s tears like some quality time with her Pa, and the feeling is mutual.Already Emma’s cries are quieting as Dean holds her close, giving her a little bounce as he blinks the last of the sleep from his eyes.

“Who is this little missy waking her Pa up before the crack of dawn, huh?” Dean blows a raspberry on Emma’s belly, and she squeals in delight. 

Dean catches a whiff of a well-used infant diaper, and in short order gets Emma situated on the floor, a flannel receiving blanket cushioning her head as Dean retrieves a clean diaper from the sack tied to the back of the crib. 

“Let’s get you freshened up.”

Dean cleans Emma carefully with one of the soft rags he keeps for this purpose, then tucks the new diaper under her bottom.A little dab of petroleum jelly here and there like Mrs. Moore had shown him keeps away the unpleasant rash that had left Emma cranky last month. 

After two months on his own the intricate series of folds for a secure and comfortable fit aren’t as challenging as they once were, despite Emma’s kicks and giggles. Dean dodges her small fists as he tries to get the pins into place without poking any delicate tummy areas.

Freshly diapered, Dean slips Emma into her everyday dress, then deposits her back into the crib, on her belly this time.She protests, but in no time at all she's distracted by the fascinating phenomenon that is wiggling her arms and legs. 

“You work on those muscles,” Dean instructs with mock sternness, “I’ve got my chores, and when I come back to make breakfast I want to see you at least crawling, little lady.”

“Bah,” Emma agrees cheerfully.Dean drops a kiss on her fuzzy little head before heading for the lean-to to pull on his boots.

The first stop is the cistern, to fill the kettle and their smaller dutch oven.He fills the water trough for the horses and hefts the kettle and oven back to the house and onto the stovetop, opening the fuel hatch to stoke up the fire and add a few logs.He sets Emma’s bottle afloat in the dutch oven and leaves it all to boil, grabbing the milk bucket and heading for the barn.

Once he's outside, Dean pops the latch on the horse stall, coaxing Jet and Baby out to the barnyard.True to his name, Jet trots out of the small space eagerly, but Baby lingers, nosing at Dean’s shirt pockets eagerly.Baby was his father’s horse first, and there’s no denying she’s getting on in years.She makes a fine buggy horse though, especially once Dean had gotten Jet reared for real workhorse tasks.Truth be told, Baby is a little spoiled, but if Dean has any sin it’s nostalgia, and Baby was the horse he’d learned to ride on as a boy. 

“Sorry, lady,” Dean says, patting the older mare’s flank, “We’ll have some sugar after the crops come in.All you’ve got’s my love for now.”

Baby huffs, giving Dean an irritated snuffle before following Jet out of the stall.

The two workhorses are old hat at the morning routine, and it hardly takes any prompting to get them headed for water.Dean fills the rod iron hay grate and rakes a fresh layer of hay over the packed dirt floor of their stall.Their stores are getting low, as close to harvest as they are, but if he can get some good help Dean will have the hayloft back to bursting in a few short weeks.

With the horses out to water and ready to feed when they wander back in, Dean sets aside a fork load of hay and nearly the last scoop of oats as incentive for his ornery milk cow.Betsy is already glaring at him over the stall partition.She’s a pretty thing, as far as cows go, all red-brown with her bright white star and socks, but every day Dean has to invade her private personage and that is apparently an unforgivable offense.

“Alright, Betsy,” Dean coaxes, “Milk, then oats.And no kicking.”

For once Dean manages a good few pints without any new hoof shaped bruises to add to his impressive collection.

“Good girl,” Dean murmurs, patting Betsy’s side.Betsy flicks her ear in warning and Dean takes that as a sure sign to clear out and call the battle won for today.He fills her feed grate, but leaves her stall door open and slides open the door leading to the fenced in paddock opposite the barnyard so the heifer can enjoy the autumn sunshine after breakfast.

Dean tucks the milk just inside the lean-to door and grabs the basket for eggs and a handful of chicken feed.The hens scold him, but scattering their breakfast in the yard around the hen house is enough to distract them while he plunders their nests.Out of a dozen chickens he manages nine eggs, a good haul for the time of year.Dean will keep some for the house and bring the rest to Jessica when he takes Emma to town.His future sister-in-law won’t take any money in exchange for keeping Emma during the day, but Dean does his best to repay her in eggs or garden goods.Caring for a baby all day is no light work, and he would certainly know.

Dean takes the eggs and milk into the house proper, leaving them on the table to check in on his daughter.In the short time that he was gone it appears Emma Winchester has managed the remarkable feat of rolling over from her belly to her back.When Dean reappears in her field of vision she gives him a gummy smile, kicking her feet proudly.

“Look at you!” Dean crows, plucking Emma from her crib and kissing her rosy cheeks, “You wrangled that turn all by yourself, huh?” 

“Ah-bah-ba,” Emma informs him, looking mighty pleased. 

“All this hard work demands a hearty breakfast,” Dean declares, heading for the table with Emma in tow, “How does oatmeal sound?”

Emma drools on Dean’s collar, which he interprets as an emphatic yes.He installs Emma in her high chair, settling the pine tray in front of her so she can’t wiggle out.Dean rigged the chair up about a month back in a fit of genius, after he found Emma sitting up on her own in her crib.His morning routine got a hell of alot easier after that little development. 

With Emma situated Dean turns back to the stove, where the pot of water is boiling merrily away.He plucks Emma’s bottle from the water with a pair of tongs, and leaves the sanitized glass to cool for a minute while he adds a cup of milled oats to the boiling water.

Dean plucks the smaller tin funnel from the wall of kitchen goods and carefully fills the still warm bottle near full of milk.He screws on the metal top with his stiff rubber nipple and tests a little of the milk on his wrist.It’s just right, and the bottle’s cooled enough that Emma won’t be bothered when she puts her hands on it, as she’s wont to do lately.

“Alrighty,” he announces, scooping Emma from her chair and setting her up in the crook of his elbow, “Let’s finish a whole bottle and we’ll see about some oatmeal after.”

It’s not as bad as it was the first time, but it still takes a minute of prompting and coaxing before Emma will latch onto the nipple and start suckling in earnest.Emma’s growing up fine despite it, thank all the powers that be, but Betsy’s milk from a glass bottle is far from what his baby girl should be drinking right now, and she darn well knows it, going off the struggle she put up the first few weeks Dean tried to bottle feed her.At least now that she’s old enough for some solid foods Dean can spare himself some worry that she ain’t getting all she needs. 

It’s out of his hands, anyway. 

Fortunately today is a cooperative day, and Dean’s oatmeal is just starting to firm up when Emma sucks the last bit of milk from her bottle and unlatches with a satisfied gurgle.Dean tosses a flannel over his shoulder and sets Emma up to burp with a few pats on the back while he stirs his breakfast, adding a few of the dried berries left in his pantry stores to plump up in the hot mixture. 

Emma lets loose a few bubbles without much mess, and once she’s content Dean deposits her back in her chair to serve up his oatmeal.He skims some cream off the top of milk bucket, and adds a little brown sugar to his bowl.He puts a dollop or two of the sweet mixture into a tin cup, blowing on it until it’s cool enough for Emma to enjoy.His baby girl is just old enough to start trying some real breakfast food, and Dean tries to provide a nice variety. 

“To us,” Dean toasts, clinking their tin dishes together before placing the tin cup on Emma’s tray, just out of reach of her curious fingers.It’s not so hot that it would burn her, but Dean is trying to feed her the oatmeal, not see it finger painted all the over the tray.He alternates getting a few quick bites of his own meal and attempting to coax Emma into a much smaller spoonful of hers, with mixed results, given Emma’s keen interest in grabbing at Dean’s spoon instead of eating. In the end he probably gets as much oatmeal smeared on her cheeks as he does in her mouth, but Emma appears to be in good spirits, and she drank a full bottle, so he doesn’t worry. 

Dean puts their dishes in the wash basin to clean, and wipes Emma’s face and hands with another damp rag.

“There we go,” he coaxes, cleaning up his daughter’s sticky fingers, “Gotta get cleaned up before we head into town to see Miss Jessica.We don’t want mama to come back and hear about us being a bunch of oatmeal covered heathens.”

Once he gets Emma out of her sticky situation Dean checks the clock on the mantel.It’s nearly seven.He’s running behind already.

Emma suffers Dean tying on her bonnet, tugging on the ends of the ribbon all the while, and then it’s just a short job of hitching up Baby to the buggy and getting ready to head into town.He has a small satchel with a few clean diapers and other necessary baby items, and he tucks the eggs for Jessica inside as well, in a well-padded bundle of cloth. 

With Emma on his hip Dean heads out the front door where he has Baby waiting for them.The sun is just rising in earnest, and Emma screws up her face comically in response to the sun in her eyes.The warm light catches on the few curls sticking out of her bonnet, highlighting the subtle red tones that were a gift from her mother. 

“Love you, Half-pint,” Dean murmurs, kissing Emma’s tiny fingers when she reaches up to pat his jaw.Emma is generally a happy baby, and she rarely cries anymore when Dean hands her over to Jess for the working hours of the day, but he still dreads this moment.Does Emma remember her mother abandoning her, and when Dean leaves to do his work does she fear he’s about to do the same?There’s nothing Dean can do to assure his infant daughter that he’d rather die than leave her for good.His journey back to his land is always filled with worry and heartache.

Emma gurgles, and Dean is drawn back to the present.  

“Time to go,” he declares.Dean climbs on board the buggy with Emma in his lap, and with a flick of the reins they’re on their way to town.

 

* * *

 

The straight-bristled broom makes a _whisk_ noise against the rough wooden floor, the back and forth motion serving to spread the dust around more than eradicate it. Cas reaches up, wiping sweat from his brow as the mid-day sun beats down on him through the window. 

True to Jessica’s hint, Cas had managed to secure work at the town’s only tavern. Attached is a small hotel, both managed by a stern, middle-aged woman named Ellen that had given him the once over when he had showed up on her doorstep, covered in road dust with nothing other than Jessica’s name to offer her. 

She had taken pity, thankfully, and he does his best to serve her well, checking in patrons at the hotel, washing dish after dish collected from the dining room, and hauling buckets of water for guest baths. It lacks the sophistication of a true hotel, but Cas respects Ellen’s even temperament and the way she runs a clean and comfortable house for any decent traveler passing through Ava. 

“Go on! Git!” she calls out to one patron who had been getting rowdy in the bar. The drunk stumbles out of the tavern, calling out curses that insult more than Ellen’s business practice. 

“I better not see you around here with that language, either!”

She turns around, spotting Cas leaning on his broom, watching her. 

“And what are you looking so intently at? Never seen a woman throw a drunk out on his rear end before?” she says, her tone switching over to good-natured and fond. For whatever reason, Ellen had taken a liking to him, despite his almost constant silence.

He shrugs, hoping his smile comes across as genuine. “No ma’am, can’t say I have.”

“You ever string more than ten words together and I’ll see an apple tree sprout through the floorboards,” she says, straightening a few empty bar-stools, shadows falling in thick strokes along the wood as the sun settles in the late afternoon.

“I’d like to see that, ma’am.”

She scoffs again, fanning herself. “This heat’s a killer. Too late for a heat wave if you ask me, though I suppose we’ll be wishing for the warmth in a few month’s time.”

“It’ll be my first Kansas winter, I admit.” Cas offers, thinking he better make more of a conversational effort. 

“That so?” Ellen answers absentmindedly. She seems to think for a moment, then perks up. “Say–Cas, would you mind heading over to the Moore’s to get a bag of flour? I have a feeling my wholesaler’s gonna be late on the order and the next train doesn’t come through until Tuesday.”

“I’ll head over now,” he says, stowing the broom behind the bar.

He’s out the door within a few minutes with a list from Ellen. Like most prairie establishments, the Harvelle Tavern and Hotel has credit with the general store, convenient enough since Ellen wouldn’t be able to trust him with money yet, or even ever. He doesn’t mind, truth be told. 

A few people meet his eyes as he walks down the dusty road–patrons of Ellen’s tavern and some of her other employees. He tips his hat at them, trying his best to make eye contact, but it’s a relief when he reaches the general store, ducking into the shade and away from curious eyes.

Miss Moore is at the counter again, this time helping a red-headed woman in a blue calico dress buy peach preserves. She nods at Cas with a smile before turning back to the woman; he stands back respectfully, waiting his turn. 

He hears an indecipherable babble, and his eyes flick towards a bassinet made of dark wood in the corner, almost behind the sales counter where Miss Moore talks with her patron. He furrows his brow, wondering if Miss Moore has a baby herself when the bells attached to the door jingle behind him, indicating that another customer has entered the store.

He turns towards the door, blaming a body’s instinct to turn in the direction of a new sound, no matter how impolite it is to stare. He’s is luck that the sun is almost blinding in its low position, turning the man who enters into a silhouette and hiding his gaze. Only when the door closes can Cas see the incoming man with any detail.

He wears sturdy clothes, dusted over with prairie dirt and obviously meant for farm work. His flat-brimmed brown hat is bleached light from sun and the elements, but his hands are clean, and his weather-freckled face is drawn down in a stressed frown. His eyes flick around the store, settling on the bassinet in the corner. 

His face transforms, mouth curling into a smile and eyes softening as he strides over to the bassinet. He nods at Miss Moore before lifting a baby clothed in a green calico shift, holding it close to his chest and talking softly while Miss Moore bags up the red-headed woman’s purchases. 

Heat creeps up the back of Cas's neck, and he looks away.

Miss Moore finishes with the customer, and finally turns to Cas. 

“Just a moment,” she whispers.

He nods, swallowing hard and letting his eyes flick back over to the man and the baby. He smoothes her soft blonde curls back away from her forehead, covering them with a green bonnet meant to be tied under her chin.

“She was good all day, I barely even noticed her,” Miss Moore says while handing him a small cloth bag.

A soft laugh, accompanied by a deep voice. “Thanks, Jess, you know I owe you for doing this–”

“Oh hush. By the way–you have good timing.” Her eyes flick over to Cas and he lowers his eyes. “The man I was telling you about–he’s over there.”

Cas wills his ears to stop burning from the attention and thanks all the angels and saints that his hair is long enough to cover them right now. He pretends to be extremely interested in a wall display of knitting patterns when he feels a double presence behind him. 

“Mr. Novak?”

He turns around at the sound of Miss Moore’s voice, her friendly face flanked by the man, now looking less mysterious with a baby on his hip. She shakes her rattle, uninterested in the dealings of adults, and he meets Cas's eyes, giving him a nod. 

Miss Moore does the introductions. “Mr. Novak, this is Dean Winchester. He owns a farm about five miles east of town.”

Dean Winchester sticks his free hand out to Cas. “Pleased to meet you, Novak.”

Cas takes it, the handshake firm but brief. “Likewise.”

“Emma here isn’t much for introductions, but I’m sure she’s pleased to make your acquaintance as well.” The baby just gurgles and laughs at her father’s words. 

“I was telling Dean that Ellen’s just been raving about your help down at the Tavern, and it so happens that Dean might need some help too,” Miss Moore says, and Cas can’t quite figure out why she sounds so eager.

“That so?” he says, trying to sound polite but not desperate. 

Winchester adjusts Emma on his hip. “Might be–my brother was planning on helping me, but he seems intent on… other matters.” He glances at Miss Moore, lips thinning out to a stern line. 

“Dean’s brother does the books for most of the town–and he’s the school teacher when it’s not harvest time. Though he was hoping to take a full-time position…”

“Didn’t know you were his spokesman, Jess,” Winchester says, half-laughing. 

Cas shifts awkwardly, unsure where he fits in all of this, and itching to get Ellen’s supplies and get back to work. 

“Is that Ellen’s list?” Jess points to the slip of paper in Cas's hand. 

Cas hands it to her, and she disappears to the back room. Dean Winchester shuffles his feet, readjusting Emma on his other hip. 

“What Jess is trying to say,” he says after a moment’s silence, “Is that my brother doesn’t want to work the farm anymore. But I can’t do it alone, especially with… well with it just being Emma and me in the house.”

Cas nods, realization washing over him. Emma’s mother must be gone, dead presumably. 

“I see,” he offers, the words pointless sounding.

“So,” Winchester continues, “She says Ellen thinks highly of you–which is as good of a recommendation as any. You have any farming experience?”

“A bit,” Cas says quickly, more a lie than the truth, “I did a few threshing jobs up north. Those were big farms, though.”

Winchester laughs, a soft sound in the back of his throat. “Yeah, well this would just be me. And you, assuming my brother ends up ok with it.”

“I’m a fast learner,” Cas jumps in. 

Miss Moore pops her head back out. “So will you talk to Sam?”

Winchester seems to bite the inside of his cheek, sizing Cas up with a boldness he hadn’t seen in awhile. “I suppose I will. I’ll be in touch, Mr. Novak.”

Emma starts to get fussy when he extends his hand again, and Cas barely shakes it before he’s out the door and onto a wagon.He knows he’s staring, and the back of his neck heats up when Miss Moore appears beside him. 

“I have Ellen’s order here on the counter,” she says, directing him to a stack of paper-wrapped packages. “I wouldn’t be too worried. Dean doesn’t show it, but he really needs some help in his homestead.”

“I wouldn’t presume–”

“Not saying you were.” Jess walks him to the door, flashing him a knowing smile before holding the door open for him. 

Cas decides that he likes Jessica Moore. 

 

* * *

 

“Your betrothed is very eager to get you off the farm, Sammy,” Dean says, by way of greeting to his brother.Sam lives in the tiny apartment furnished by the Ava school board.It’s practically a closet; two cramped rooms above the telegraph office, but Sam stays for the proximity to the schoolhouse, and to Jess, despite Dean’s open offer to set him up a permanent space back at the farm.If everything works out with this Novak fellow Sam won’t be spending much more time on the Winchester land anyway.

Sam grimaces from the corner of the room that serves as his kitchen, towering over the two-burner wood stove he’s standing over.“Sorry,” he stammers, “I’ll tell her to lay off, Dean.She’s just worried about me, and our engagement staying on track.I probably vent a little more than I should _—_ ”

“No, she's right,” Dean admits with a sigh, “We didn't pay for all that schooling so you could be my free hired hand.”

Sam’s face goes through an interesting flurry of expressions that Dean recognizes as his brother trying not to look like he agrees with him.Jessica is right.It's time to let Sam out of the nest.

“Are you hungry?” Sam offers, indicating the pots on the stove, “Jess promised her mother she’d be home for supper tonight, so it’s bachelor fare, but, you know, what’s mine is yours and all that.”

“I’ll take a plate if you’ve got it,” Dean agrees, taking a seat at his brother’s table, “And Emma might be tempted by a spoonful of potatoes if we mash ‘em up for her.” 

“Coming right up.”

“So Jessica thinks she’s found me a hand for the harvest,” Dean says, once they’re both seated at the small table.He’s starving after a long day of chores, and Sam’s quick pork and potatoes dinner hits the spot.Emma eyes his plate with interest, but she turns her head away when Dean offers her some potatoes off his spoon.

“She might have mentioned it,” Sam replies, studiously cutting up his potatoes with his fork.

“I’ll bet.Sometimes I think all you two talk about is my circumstances.”

“You meet him yet?” 

Dean nods.“Jess introduced us at the store just now.”

“So?” Sam asks, “What’d you think of him?”

“He’s fit,” Dean says, thinking back on Novak’s wiry frame.It was the build of a man who was no stranger to work but was occasionally a stranger to square meals.“He didn’t have much to say when I asked about his farm work, but he didn’t turn his nose up either.”

“Most men wouldn’t,” Sam agrees around a full mouth, “Bigger question is, do you think he’s trustworthy?”

Dean shrugs, making a second attempt to fool Emma into a bite of potato.She’s having none of it, giving Dean a contrary pout that reminds him so sharply of Lydia that it makes him ache a little.“It’s hard to say.Ellen thinks well enough of him, and her good opinion ain’t exactly easy to come by.And Jess says he gives the impression of a man who minds his business.Which is something I’m in need of.”

Sam nods, sympathetic as always.“How are things at the house?”

“I’m getting the hang of it.”Emma bats the spoon away, getting a good fistful of potatoes in the process, but as is her habit she immediately sticks her fingers in her mouth, so Dean calls it a win.“I was always a fair hand in the kitchen, and the two of us don’t make much laundry.It is what it is.”

The weight of the concerned gaze Sam levels him with is almost enough to knock Dean over.

“Don't give me that look,” Dean scowls into his plate.

“I wasn't giving you a _look_ ,” Sam protests, “You weren't even looking at me.”

“I can feel it,” Dean grumbles, “And I know that look.It's the ‘I've been listening to the ladies at church too much’ look.”

“It bears saying,” Sam blusters, “A hand will be able to help with the farm work, but you need someone to run the house, and nobody in town would judge you if-”

“I have a living wife, Sam.”Dean is very tired of retreading this argument.“That's not something you can just overwrite and sleep easy on.”

“But Lydia-”

“-will wear out her wandering urges and be back before the weather turns,” Dean cuts him off, leveling Sam with his most serious older brother, head-of-the-family glare. “End of discussion, are we clear?”

Sam frowns, but he lets it lie at Dean’s urging and they both manage a good bit of dinner despite the tense silence.

“So,” Dean speaks up after a few minutes, bouncing Emma on his knee, “If everything works out with this Novak then you should be free to take the school board up on the offer Jess told me about.”

“Yeah,” Sam agrees, smiling before he narrows his eyes at Dean in suspicion, “Not that you need to rush into hiring someone just because I’m looking into a longterm position.”

“I know.”

“Because whoever you hire on is gonna be at the house-”

“Around Emma,” Dean interjects, “Believe me, Sammy, I know.Any nightmare running through your head right now has already cost me a night of sleep and then some.I still need help, and I can’t ask you and Jess to put your lives on hold forever.” 

Sam frowns. “You know I don’t mind-”

“I mind,” Dean cuts him off again, “This whole thing with Lydia...it’s my problem.I appreciate the help Sam, you know I do, but the best thing you can do for me right now is get your lives back on track and let me deal with my issues on my own.”

“Yeah,” Sam murmurs, “Alright.We’re here for you though, you know, Dean?What happened isn’t your fault.So don’t feel like you’re this big imposition on us.We’re family.”

“Yeah,” Dean agrees, throat a little tight, “Thanks Sammy.”

They keep eating, in a much more comfortable state of quiet. 

“Welp,” Dean says once they’ve both cleaned their plates, “I better get this little lady home.She’s bound to turn into a pumpkin once the sun goes down.”

“Sure,” Sam agrees, “Just leave your plate; I’ll take care of it.”

“Thanks.”Dean wipes Emma’s face and hands with his handkerchief and re-adjusts her bonnet.Sam grabs Dean’s baby satchel and walks him the few short steps to the door.

“Don’t be a stranger,” Dean tells him.

“I won’t,” Sam promises, “I wanna meet this Novak if you end up taking him on.”

“Come by the house next week sometime then, if you can find room in your busy academic schedule,” Dean says, “If you bring Jess I might not even make you do chores to earn your supper.”

Sam laughs at that.Dean gives his brother a backslapping hug, and lifts Emma so she can put a sticky kiss on her uncle’s cheek and tug on his overgrown mane before they take their leave with a promise to join the Moores for supper later that week.

“Uncle Sammy has big plans, Half-pint,” Dean tells Emma as they make their way back to the buggy, “I think it’s time for us to get out of his way. 

Emma gurgles her agreement.

 

* * *

 

_“Cas! Your friend from school is downstairs! Please come down!”_

“Novak!”

Cas jerks out of his stupor, sloshing dirty dish water over the side of the tin bucket. Ellen’s daughter pokes her head through the swinging doors that connected the dining room with the kitchen, looking around for the source of the noise. Jo helps with the day-to-day manning of the Tavern, and has a temperament similar to her mother’s. 

“You looked about a thousand miles away, Novak,” Jo says.

“I apologize,” he mutters, drying his soap-raw hands on his apron, “Can I help with something?”

She shakes her head. “Dean Winchester’s here. He’d like a word.”

Cas nods, swallowing the lump in his throat. He repeats an old mantra as he unties his apron and heads for the swinging door: eye contact, firm handshake, keep the mouth on the side of a frown _—_  

Dean stands like a statue near the door, bowed slightly from the weight of baby Emma at his hip. He’s already deep in conversation with Ellen, and Cas stands back to wait. Dean throws his head back to laugh at something Ellen had said, and she spots him.

“Don’t just lurk behind there, Dean needs to speak with you,” Ellen calls, waving him over.

Cas can’t help but scowl a bit, as refreshing as Ellen’s motherly fussing is after the rugged prairie. He makes his way over, and she nods at him before walking away to help another customer at the end of the counter. 

Winchester turns to him and adjusts his daughter on his hip, little Emma absorbed in playing with a soft doll made from patterned calico. 

“Just came from picking her up at the Moores’–” he says by way of greeting, “Thought I’d stop by here quick rather than make a whole other trip.”

“I understand,” Cas says, smiling what he hopes is in a reassuring way, “What can I do for you?”

“Well, I talked to my brother,” Winchester continues, a smile quirking up at the corner of his mouth, “And he’s just about ready to give up farming for good, if you ask me.”

“That so?”

“Yeah, so it’s looking like I’m gonna need help after all.”

Cas nods. “I very much appreciate it, Mr. Winchester–”

Winchester holds up a hand, cocking his head to the side. “Well hold your horses there–I just need to know a few things.”

Cas stands up straight. “Of course.”

Winchester purses his lips. “Nothing personal, you see, I just have a baby at home with me and I take her safety seriously, if you understand me.”

“Completely. Ask anything you need.”

Shifting back and forth on his feet, Winchester looks younger than he did when Cas first met him. Before Cas would have pegged him at early thirties, but his nervousness settles in the softness of his eyes and in a frown void of wrinkles. 

“You see,” he starts, stopping and clearing his throat. Emma babbles infant nonsense, fidgeting a bit in his arms. “Shhh, whoa there, Half-pint,” Winchester says, his frown disappearing when Emma laughs. 

Cas can’t help but smile. “How old did you say she was?”

“I didn’t,” Winchester says, managing to shift Emma to a more comfortable position where she is free to beat her doll against her father’s back, “Five months, this Saturday.”

“Ah. I was five when my sister was born. I remember feeling distinctly put out by all her babbling.”

Winchester laughs, a full sound that makes his head go slightly back. “I remember that feeling all too well, with Sammy.”

“Your brother?”

“Yep,” Winchester says, “Had to take care of him a lot in those years, my mother being not well and all.”

“I’m sure you embraced the task,” Cas says.

“Yeah well, long time ago now.” Winchester brushes the compliment aside, studying him intently. “You talk like a visiting salesman. Whereabouts are you from?” 

Cas stiffens. “Back east. New England area.”

Winchester frowns. “Apologies. I don’t mean to pry.”

“No offense taken.”

Winchester sighs, squaring his feet. “Look, Novak, I don’t need to know your life story. I don’t care to know why you’re in Kansas, or how you ended up in Ava. But I…” he trails off. “I’ve got a young daughter, see.”

Cas nods. “What is it you need to know? I assure you I won’t be offended.”

Dean looks up, meeting his eyes with a piercing gaze. Cas had thought that his eyes were hazel before, but in the light of the afternoon sun they shine pure green. 

“Are you a peaceful man, Novak?” he asks, “What _—_ what I mean is, Emma’s life hasn’t exactly been normal, and she’s only been on the earth for a short time. I just want to make sure that people in her life are the stable type.”

Cas holds his gaze, wanting his response to hold firm. “I’ve not had a drink in years, rarely smoke tobacco, and prefer the quiet life of the country to town. I can’t promise that I’m an expert at farm work, but I’m a quick learner and you’ll barely know I’m there otherwise.” He pauses, fumbling at his suspenders for something to hold on to, “Yes, Mr. Winchester, I am a peaceful man. Or I strive to be, at least.”

Winchester absorbs his response, visibly relaxing after a moment. A tense smile spreads across his face. “Well, that’s that then. The job’ll include room and board since we’ll be working late for the season, and you can eat meals with Emma and I and bunk up in the barn at night. I’ll be able to pay you as soon as the harvest is sold–some odd ten percent. I can have Sam draw up a contract to make it official.”

Cas fumbles over his words, “That’s all too kind–”

Winchester holds up a hand. “No need. You can start on Tuesday, that way you can finish whatever Ellen’s got going for you here. I’ll be in town to pick up Emma from the Moores Monday night and you can hitch a ride with us back to the farm then.”

“I’ll be ready.”

Winchester nods. “I just want to be clear–I’ll only need help for the harvest time, I can’t promise any work once winter starts brewing.”

Cas shrugs. “I’m used to moving around, Mr. Winchester. It will be nice to be settled for a little while at least.”

Winchester smiles. “Good to hear it, Novak. And if we’re gonna be working together, you better get used to calling me Dean. Mr. Winchester was my father.”

Cas laughs, rubbing the back of his neck. “Then I’ll be just Cas as well, to make things equal.”

Dean nods. “Good to meet you, Cas. I’ll see you Monday.” He turns to Emma. “Ready to go home, little lady?”

Emma lets out a loud laugh, turning some heads out of the few patrons in the bar. Dean just laughs along, nodding again to Cas before turning on his heel to head for the exit. 

Cas watches Dean walk out, the late sun once again illuminating his exit. It catches on Emma’s soft blonde hair while she babbles to her doll. Cas catches her eye, swearing she flashes him a gummy smile before Dean turns the corner and is gone. 

“Pity he’s so misinformed,” Ellen says from behind the bar. 

Cas turns around, swallowing hard; he had forgotten she was there. 

“How so?” he asks.

“See him in a tavern with a baby girl at his hip? S’not right,” she says, picking up a glass to polish. 

Cas straightens the barstools, cognizant of the approaching supper rush “He doesn’t seem to have much of a choice.”

“Everyone’s got a choice, Novak,” she snaps, before her eyes soften, “He needs a wife, not a hired hand. Someone to take care of that child properly.”

“He seems to have a handle on it.”

Ellen laughs. “Menfolk have no business in matters of solo child-rearing, you can ask Dean yourself about that.” 

Cas just shrugs, figuring it’s not his place to comment further. It did seem crass of Ellen to judge a man recently widowed, but the rest of the evening passes without any mentioning Dean Winchester, and by the time nightfall hits Cas collapses into bed, too tired to give any of it much more thought.

 

* * *

 

Monday comes swiftly, and it seems like no time at all before Dean is heading back from the general store with Emma to meet Cas.

“You remember we’re bringing a guest home with us,” Dean reminds her, making conversation as they walk the short distance to where Dean tied up the buggy, “Cas is giving us a hand on the farm, but he won’t bother you none, so there’s no need for nerves on account of having a stranger in our midst.”

“Guh,” Emma replies, nuzzling into Dean’s shirt with a sleepy blink.

“That’s right,” Dean agrees, “He’s gonna help us with our chores so I can spend more time with my favorite girl.”

It’s just about suppertime, and the late summer sun is well on its way to setting when Dean spots his new hand waiting by the buggy.Cas is making friends with Baby, offering her what looks like a bit of apple, a well-used leather satchel at his feet.Dean keeps his face neutral, but he won’t pretend he ain’t pleased that Novak is good around his horse.When he notices Dean and Emma approaching Cas straightens up quick, like a kid caught with sweets before dinner.Dean can’t help but notice he’s wearing the same clothes as the last time Dean saw him.It only confirms his suspicions that Cas hasn’t been having the best run of luck lately.

“Cas,” Dean greets him, “Glad you found us.”The name falls awkward on his tongue, short as it is.It feels too familiar, given how the few minutes they’ve spent in each other’s company.

“...Dean.” Cas shuffles his feet and offers a tentative smile.Dean feels some modicum of relief that at least Novak is feeling as awkward about all this as he is. 

Emma squawks impatiently against his shoulder, and it breaks the tension as Dean chuckles and Cas's eyes take on a little warmth. 

“You heard the lady,” Dean quips, “We better get a move on.”

“Yes ma’am.”Cas replies directly to Emma, tipping his hat solemnly.He looks back to Dean with only a bare quirk of his lips to betray his humor.“Where should I stow my effects?”

Dean shows him the small bench behind the buggy seats where Cas is able to toss his satchel before settling on the narrow seat beside Dean.Dean sets the small pack of fresh diapers and baby goods that he brings to Jess when she keeps Emma in the back as well.Emma stays on Dean’s lap, his elbows at her sides to keep her from flopping over in her sleepy state.It’s a bit of a tight fit with two grown men on the seat of the little buggy, but one extra body wasn’t worth hooking up the big farm wagon.Cas seems a little uncomfortable with their proximity, nearly shoulder to shoulder on the narrow bench seat, but whether he’s attempting to leave space between them for Dean’s sake or his own he couldn’t say. 

“We’re just a short ways out of town,” Dean says once they’re situated, flicking the reins to get Baby moving, “You could walk it, have done in good weather, but it’s a bit far in the dark.”

Cas nods.“How many acres?”

“One-sixty,” Dean replies, “We end up working about one-fifty-five of it, between the house and the barn and the grazing fields, but who’s counting, right?”

“A true homestead,” Cas notes.

“That’s right,” Dean says, “My folks settled it.Started out with a sod house and just made do until they could get a crop in.My pa built the house and the barn with his own two hands the year I was born.” 

“That must have taken a lot of courage.”

“Yeah, well,” Dean mutters, a little unsettled by Cas's casual sincerity, “I try and keep it up as best I can.”

Cas nods again.“And now you have help,” he says lightly, eyes still forward on the road as they leave town behind and follow the dirt path out to the Winchester homestead.

“I guess that’s so,” Dean agrees, “Should make things a little easier.”

They make the rest of the short ride to the house in silence, though Emma’s sleepy baby babbling does wonders to keep the awkwardness at bay.In just a few minutes the Winchester family home appears on the horizon, standing proud in the fading evening light.

“Home sweet home,” Dean quips when they pull up to the barn entrance.The rocking ride had plumb near put Emma to sleep, but Dean knows she’ll be up and hungry in a few minutes.

“You know how to get the wagon unhitched?” he asks Cas.

“I think I can manage,” Cas replies, dismounting from the buggy. 

“Alright then.I’m gonna get the baby settled,” Dean says, cradling Emma against his chest, “There’s a trough is just there in the barnyard.If you get Baby undone she’ll likely be needing a drink.I’ll be out in a minute to show you ‘round the barn.”

Cas nods and sets to work on Baby’s tack while Dean heads straight for the house.For now Emma is content to doze, so Dean slips off her bonnet and leaves her in her crib.He stokes the fire in the stove and puts a bottle’s worth of milk in a small cast iron pot and leaves it on the stove top to warm.He unpacks Emma’s little satchel, setting her rag doll beside her in her crib and tossing the tied parcel of used diapers in their laundry sack.In the front pocket Dean discovers a few hearty wheat rolls tied in a handkerchief, no doubt from the Moore family’s baking that day.Dean sends up a prayer of thanks for his future sister-in-law.With a few fried eggs and some butter the rolls will make a fit supper.Lastly Dean takes Emma’s bottle and heads back for the barnyard.He leaves it by the water pump so he can rinse it out after he gets Cas situated and steps into the barn, where his new hire is giving Baby a brush down, her tack slung over his shoulder.

“She likes you,” Dean notes, and Cas jumps. 

“Well I did come with bribes,” he replies, when he realizes who’s speaking to him.Dean lets Cas finish up his brushing.The ride to town and back isn’t exactly strenuous, even for an old lady like Baby, but Dean likes that Cas showed initiative in finding the brush and helping her get settled, not just following the letter of Dean’s instructions.That’ll be mighty helpful when the autumn work gets into full swing and every minute’s gotta be put to use.

“I meant to ask if you’d had supper,” Dean says when Cas puts the brush back on the shelf outside the horse stall.Cas nods.

“Ellen fed me before I left,” he answers, “To save you the trouble.She seems to think you can use all the help you can get.”

Dean bristles, but not necessarily at Cas's words.“Ellen’s a lady of many strong opinions,” he replies diplomatically, and Cas's mouth quirks up in a subtle grin.Ellen was smart, and fair, but Dean figures working for the bar owner must have been a unique experience to say the least.

They hang up Baby’s bridle and Cas introduces himself to Jet, magicking another morsel of apple from somewhere on his person to win over the younger horse.

“Smart man,” Dean quips, “Gotta make nice with the neighbors.”

Cas doesn’t seem at all perturbed to be sharing his living quarters with Dean’s livestock.

“They're much quieter company than I’m used to at the tavern,” he comments, petting Jet’s flank before following Dean back out onto the threshing floor.

“I’ll bet,” Dean says, guiding Cas back to the unoccupied stall that Dean had put some little effort into making a passable room for his new hand.He had Sam's old bed set up, with his spare kerosene lamp resting on an empty crate and a small basin for washing up in the morning if Cas wanted.A layer of fresh hay on the floor should keep the space dry and this side of the barn would stay pretty warm until the snows came in earnest.

Cas examines the space with interest while Dean lights the lamp with a book of matches that he left out here for Cas to use. 

“The, uh, frame’s been out here for a while,” Dean explains, tapping his boot against one of the bed’s sturdy legs, “But I kept the mattress under my bed in the house, so there shouldn’t be any mice.”

Cas drops his satchel beside the crate Dean had set by the bedside.He draws his fingers over the faded blue and gray quilt still folded at the head of the bed. 

“It’s a little old. but it’ll keep the drafts at bay.” Dean feels the need to fill the silence as Cas takes in his new quarters.“My ma brought it from back east, and you said you had people there. I thought it might suit you.”

Cas takes a seat on the bed, pulling the quilt into his lap to examine the pattern before looking back up at Dean.

“Thank you.”

The kerosene light casts him in rich browns and warm gold.Dean is caught by Novak’s gaze, the cool blue thrown into flickering green and gray, what Dean imagined the sea to look like from his mother’s stories.

“Well.It’s nothing much.”Dean breaks their gaze and the tension is broken again.Cas puts the quilt aside. 

“I’ve had much less comfortable lodgings,” he disagrees, “It’ll be a nice change to have my own space.”

“Alright then,” Dean says, “I’ll leave you to it.There’ll be breakfast early, so just knock on the door come sunrise if you don’t see me before." 

Cas nods again, and after a few awkward seconds Dean bids his goodnight and trudges back to the house, where Emma is just starting to fuss.Dean gets to work on their supper, hyper-aware of the presence of a stranger now nestled in the heart of his life and livelihood, and wonders what in the hell he’s gotten himself into.

 

* * *

 

_“Cas,” Anna says, eyes worried enough to make bile rise in his throat. This was it, his hands curl into fists at his sides, desperate to hold onto something, anything._

_“Cas–” she continues, the words catching and she watches him, and he knows his face must look twisted, “It’s Ezekiel, I think. A soldier was knocking on Hannah’s door. I didn’t recognize him.”_

_He doesn’t realize his fist is raised until he bites down on it, the pain giving him something to grasp onto, something real–_

Cas wakes with a gasp, arms flying out as if to defend himself from some unseen enemy. It takes a moment for the quilt and smell of straw and animals to remind him where he is, in Dean Winchester’s barn, about to start his first day of work. 

He sits up, listening to the last of rooster’s call that must have woken him up out of his dream. His heart slows its thunderous pounding after a few minutes, accustomed to the routine of abuse his dreams entail. The morning chill creeps under Dean’s mother’s quilt, despite its excellence in keeping him warm throughout the night. 

He rubs his eyes, intent to not look sleep-worn when he meets up with Dean for morning chores. Working for Ellen had required an early morning, but nothing started earlier than farming. 

Fumbling out of bed, he kneels down on the worn wooden floor and folds his hands atop his mattress. He rests his head against his folded hands, the slight pressure soothing. 

“ _Ave Maria, gratia plena_ …”

He rises after only one _Ave Maria_ , his rosary beads still tucked away in his knapsack and the rooster’s call already ten minutes over. He hastens to make the bed, evening out the corners and smoothing the wrinkles away. He grabs his clothes from the hook next to his bed, pulling them on over his shivering limbs. 

He rubs his arms to warm up as he passes the stalls, hat in hand. Only the barest traces of sun peeked over the horizon line, and the he sees that the world is still dark outside of the open barn door. 

“Alright, Betsy, let's make it a good day today– oof!”

Cas rounds the corner to the cow stall to see Dean sprawled on the ground to the side of a large cow, who he assumes must be Betsy, milking stool overturned by his side. He looks up at Cas, chuckling softly and shaking his head. 

“Dang cow is more stubborn than Emma when she gets fussy.” Cas offers a hand, and Dean takes it, dusting off his pants when he’s upright again. “Morning,” he says then, shrugging like it’s an afterthought. 

“Good morning,” Cas returns.

Betsy moos quietly, feet shuffling against the dusty barn floor. Cas approaches the brown cow, holding out a hand for her sniff. She huffs at first before turning to allow him to pet her head. 

“She's lovely,” Cas says. 

Dean laughs again. “She always takes a liking to strangers. You'll know she feels fully acquainted when she kicks you off the stool.”

Cas smiles. “I could try for you. Since she might as well get used to me.” 

Dean shrugs. “Be my guest.”

Cas's stomach twists with nerves. He turns the stool right again, sitting down and holding the tin bucket between his knees. He had been a daily hand at a farm in Pennsylvania for a few months when he had first left home, but he hadn't milked a cow since then. He sends up a quick prayer that Betsy’s had enough kicking for the day. 

Except for one angry whine, Betsy lets him get the job done, capping out at over half a bucketful of frothy milk. Dean fusses around the stall while he does it, and Cas gets the feeling that he doesn't find staying still too easy. 

He nods at Cas's work. “Well, got me beat.” He turns, beckoning over his shoulder, “C’mon, I'll show you the rest of the barn. Gotta be a quick tour though, Emma will be up soon.”

Dean leads him through the stalls that they had been too tired to look through last night, re-acquainting him with the young and fidgety workhorse, Jet, and the old mare that had driven them there the day before. 

“Baby here is an old girl, but just about as faithful as they come,” Dean says as he pats the old horse’s neck before leading them to the trough in the barnyard. 

“I usually tend to the animals as soon as I get up,” Dean explains as he begins pumping water into a large bucket, “Then head back for breakfast before the regular day’s chores. ‘Course, it being harvest time will mean longer days than normal, so there won’t be much down time as long as the sun is out.”

He tips the bucket and water splashes into the trough. Jet and Baby bend down to drink, and Cas takes a moment to wash his hands and face. He sits back on his heels and watches them, unsure how he should respond. Dean didn’t seem to mind that this was his first job as a solo hired hand rather than an employee of a threshing company, so he couldn’t say Dean’s impromptu walkthrough was unwelcome. 

Dean shows him the hay stores (“Oats are pretty much gone until we harvest them, so it’s hay for everyone. Fair warning, Baby and Betsy get a little ornery without the occasional treat.”) and the storage rooms where the equipment is kept (“I’ve had the mechanical reaping machine for a few years now, don’t even want to think about what it was like before.”) before heading back up to the main house. 

It’s an attractive house, the smooth clapboards showing brightly in the early morning sun as prairie wildflowers hug close to the foundation. Homemade shutters flank the two glass windows with white curtains lining them on the inside. The house sits solid and strong on a low hill, and while the sturdiness is apparent, it’s also plain and small. Talk in town had made Winchester seem like a big success, but his house looked only a few notches above the grade of a first-year homesteader. 

There’s already a kettle set to boil on the stove, and Emma squirms around in her crib with the same doll from yesterday. Her bottle floats in the kettle and Dean moves to remove it, setting it on the counter with a practiced ease. The house is simple, yet clean and tidy, and it’s clear than Dean takes both of his jobs seriously. 

“Emma’s gonna start fussing if I don’t get her set up, would you mind starting the oats?”

Cas tenses up. “Of course.”

Dean laughs. “Bet you didn’t think this job would require cooking.”

Cas relaxes, laughing softly. “Can’t say I did.”

He finds the wooden box containing oats next to the stove easily enough, and attempts to look capable as he adds a few scoops until the proportions seem about right. He’s eaten his fair share of oatmeal on the road, more from the hands of kind strangers than his own making. 

He stirs the oats with a long wooden spoon while Dean talks softly to Emma.

“Can’t spend all day in bed, Emma, that’s not the way of the prairie. We all gotta pull our weight.” Emma gurgles, followed by Dean’s soft laugh, “Yes, even Half-pints like you. Let’s show our guest how Winchesters get things done during harvest time.”

Cas blushes, the heat creeping up the back of his neck as he quickly locates the everyday dishes. setting two places at the table and pulling Emma’s wooden high chair up to the table. 

Dean makes his way over, cradling her in his arms to negotiate her morning bottle, now dressed in blue calico. Cas serves the oatmeal while Emma finishes her bottle in record time. Dean plops her down into the high-chair, getting up to rummage through a cupboard next to the stove. 

“Oatmeal ain’t good for nothing without sugar,” he says before sitting down again, placing a small glass pot of brown sugar on the table. He stirs a generous spoonful into his oatmeal. “Thanks for this,” he says, gesturing down at the food.

Cas nods, “Of course. I’m here to help you.”

“Yeah well,” Dean says, between bites, “We all need some of that now and then, isn’t that right, Half-pint?”

Emma bangs her little fists again the tray, laughing in that screaming way unique to babies.

“We’re working on decorum,” Dean jokes, “It’s finishing school for her next year.”

Cas laughs. “You’re very sweet to her,” he observes, the words out of his mouth before he’s thought them through. 

Dean tenses, eyes focused on Emma. “I’m all she has,” he says after a moment, and Cas is surprised to hear not affrontement in his tone, but sadness. 

“I apologize,” Cas says quickly, “I didn’t mean to overstep.”

“You didn’t,” Dean says quickly.

An awkward silence settles over the table. Cas moves his spoon around in his oatmeal, before it’s broken by the sound of rattling wagon wheels outside. 

“Oh,” Dean starts, wiping his mouth with a towel, “Almost forgot. Usually I’d be hitching up to take Emma into town right about now, but Jess is gonna come out here today, since her father watches the general store on Tuesdays.”

Cas nods through a mouth of oatmeal, and Dean excuses himself to meet Jess outside. Cas glances at Emma out of the corner of his eye, and she stares at him unabashedly. Cas can’t help but make a face, sticking out his tongue and crossing his eyes. Emma laughs again, and he feels something pull at his chest. 

It’s been a while since he’s been around children. 

Jessica Moore enters the house alone, the sound of Dean leading her horse to the barnyard filtering in the window.

“Good to see you again, Miss Moore.” 

She rolls her eyes, smiling. “Please, call me Jess.”

“Only if you call me Cas.”

“It’s a deal. How are you settling in?”

Cas nods. “Well enough, I think. I can’t thank you enough for recommending me.”

“Don’t worry about it. My intentions were mostly selfish,” she says sheepishly.

Cas cocks a confused eyebrow, but is unable to ask for further details when Dean enters the house again, sunlight streaming behind him from the open door. 

“Hope you’re not bothering my help, Moore,” Dean says, obviously at a point of familiarity with Jess. 

“Wouldn’t dream of it, Winchester,” Jess shoots back, “Gotta tell you, I saw that brother of yours on his way to the schoolhouse this morning–looking like he might start skipping from happiness.”

It’s Dean’s turn to roll his eyes. “We’ll see how long that lasts.” He turns on his heel, beckoning for Cas. “C’mon, Cas, let’s leave the women to their business.”

“Very funny, Dean!” Jess calls when they’re almost outside. 

Dean chuckles as they walk back to the barn, hands in his pockets and hat back on his head. “Don’t mind Jess and I, we’ve been quarrelling since she was in two braids.”

“I see that,” Cas says, feeling like an intruder trying to squeeze into an entire tight-knit community. He reminds himself that he’s here to do a job. 

“So,” Dean starts when they reach the barn, “We’ll start the reaping today, should take us the week at least. Then there’s the threshing and that’s always a hoot. I imagine you know how to hitch up a horse?”

Any awkwardness Cas had been feeling dissipates in the familiarity of work. They hitch Jet up to the mechanical reaper, walking him out to the first field of tall, golden wheat. Dean works the machine and spurs Jet on while Cas follows behind to rake the stalks into piles to be picked up later. The sun climbs high in the sky, heating up the day with each passing hour. 

With the noise of the reaper clanging and cutting talking isn’t possible, which helping them settle into a companionable silence. By the time the sun is overhead, they’ve finished a field and Dean pulls Jet to a stop, hopping down off of the reaper seat and passing Cas a canteen of water. 

“Good progress.”

Cas nods, taking a drink. “Never done a job with this equipment before.”

Dean swallows, raising his eyebrows, “People still hand-reaping?”

“Big farms with a lot of hands, you’d be surprised.” 

“Well,” Dean says, “Never thought the Winchester homestead would be the pinnacle of innovation.”

Cas smiles. “Give yourself some credit. It seems like you’ve done well for yourself.”

Dean laughs, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, well, John Winchester would be turning in his grave.”

“Your father?”

“Yup. Passed on, a few years back. Ma too, couple years before.”

“I’m sorry.”

Dean shrugs, brushing it off while putting the canteens back in a pocket on the reaper, mouth a tight line “Long time ago. Let’s see if we can finish this field before lunch, if we’re lucky maybe Jess will have already cooked it!” 

Dean hops back on the reaper seat, clicking his tongue and flicking the reins to get Jet moving again. Cas follows, gripping the rake tight and trying not to stare at the tense set of Dean’s shoulders. 

 

* * *

 

Dean pulls off his boots in the lean-to and trudges into the house to find Sam seated comfortably at his kitchen table, bouncing Emma in his lap and chatting while Jess stirs something good smelling on the stove. 

“Well come on in, Sammy,” Dean announces himself, leaning against the lean-to doorway, “Sit a while.Stay for supper why don’t you.”

Sam just rolls his eyes but Jess blushes.“Sorry, Dean,” she says, wiping her hands on her apron, “I just assumed—”

“I’m just pulling your pigtails again, Jess,” Dean waves her off, ruffling Sam’s hair just to make him sputter in front of his girl before plucking Emma from his lap and giving her a big kiss, “All Winchesters welcome in this house.Past, present, and future members included.”

As usual Emma’s happy to see him, despite being with novelty company all morning.After the morning of hard work, his little girl's smile makes Dean feel like a new man. 

“Ain’t today a school day?” he asks Sam, hanging up his hat on the hook by his bedroom door. 

“I called a half-day,” Sam says, exasperated, “I only had three students this morning, all under ten.There’s only so much I can do before they get fidgety, and rightly so.”

“That’s harvest time, kiddo,” Dean agrees, “You’ll be back in business in a week or so, when the crops are in and we’re all waiting our turn on the thresher.” He sits down while Jess busies herself in the kitchen, a pot of water already on the stove.

“I was just warming up a bottle for Emma if you'd rather feed her,” Jess tells him when she follows his sight-line, “Cas is coming in to eat, right?”

“He oughtta be in any minute,” Dean replies, “He offered to brush Jet down but he should be washing up by now.”

“How’s he doing?” Sam asks.

Dean shrugs, using the wash basin to clear the dirt from his hands and forearms. “Good enough. I think he’ll do just fine for the season. He’s got experience with the work, but I know he ain’t gonna try to run my farm.”

“God knows I’ve tried,” Sam says under his breath, earning himself a smack when Dean walks by him to settle into his seat at the table. The Winchester table always has room for more, and Dean smiles to see that Jess had already set a place for Cas without being asked. He thinks of his mother. 

At that moment Cas slips in through the lean-to, silent as ever, and Dean wouldn’t have realized he was there if he hadn’t seen him. 

“You must be Cas.” Sam says warmly, pulling out the chair next to him. It dawns on Dean that the real reason for Sam’s visit is owed to his younger brother’s nosiness. John Winchester had never taken on a hired hand, known for being private and in the family, especially as Dean and Sam got older. “Come on in and take a seat. Sam Winchester.” He holds out a hand, which Cas takes as he’s sitting down. 

“Pleased to meet you,” Cas says, offering a smile in return. 

Jess sets a bowl of pan-fried potatoes along with a good helping of salt pork on the table, serving Cas first while Dean starts Emma’s bottle, her tiny hands coming up to grasp for the clear glass. 

“I gotta make sure you get some, Cas,” Jess says, laughing as Sam all but lunges at her excellent smelling food. “These two turkey vultures wouldn’t know manners if they jumped up and bit them.”

Dean clutches his heart in false indignation. “I’ve never been so insulted, and in my own home to boot.” He smiles at Cas, shaking his head. “Just ignore this one, and eat your fill.”

Cas eats slowly, tucking into the meal in an almost methodical way. Either an upbringing in fancy table manners, or just someone who appreciates a good meal. 

Sam speaks up again while Dean muses over Cas's eating habits. “Is it just Cas? S’gotta be short for something.”

“Not a name we hear much around Ava, that’s for sure,” Jess pipes up, “I’m surprised Ellen didn’t grill you for your Christian name right off the bat.”

Sam laughs. “She still calls me Samuel, and won’t take no for an answer when I try to call her on it.”

“Hey, you two,” Dean reprimands, watching as Cas flushes a little under their banter, “It’s Cas's first day, we can cut the man a little slack.”

“It’s alright,” Cas demurs, smiling at Jess as she passes him the potatoes, “My Christian name is ‘Castiel James’, on account of my father being the scholarly type and my mother the religious.”

“Quite a mouthful,” Sam says, interested, though Dean still throws him a look for forgetting his tact.Cas just laughs though.

“It is singular out here,” he agrees, “Though my mother used to assure me it was much more commonplace in the Old Country.”

“The ‘old country’ huh?” Dean repeats, “Whereabouts would that be?”

“Eastern Europe,” Cas answers vaguely, “I’d be more specific but every few years I get to lay eyes on a map it seems like the lines have all been redrawn around that part of the world.”

“We’re pretty well isolated here from most international goings on,” Sam says, nodding, “Though I did hear tell of the trouble brewing around the Balkans while I was at school.It’s right chaos out there.” 

“You likely know more about it than I do,” Cas replies, looking vaguely uncomfortable, “I was only a child when we emigrated.I’d be hard pressed to recall much of the Polish I used to hear at home.”

“Our ma used to spout a few choice Gaelic curses when she thought we were out of earshot,” Dean offers, “Picked ‘em up from her da, no doubt.Hot tempered, the Campbells.”

“Our pa always swore there was a Winchester on the Mayflower,” Sam chips in.

The corners of Cas's mouth turn up in what Dean could almost call a smile. 

“Somethin’ funny?” he asks, when Cas tried to hide his grin in his tin cup.Cas grimaces, self conscious, but the amused smile persists.

“Just a memory from home,” Cas reveals, “It was the favorite cry of those who frequented the pubs around my city.My sister used to say if you give a man two pints, it doesn’t matter what his last name is, he’ll tell you all about his ancestor on the Mayflower.” 

That gets a laugh from everyone,and Dean can't help but notice the loosening of Cas's shoulders. Dean imagines it's been quite some time since Cas last got to spend any time like this.Just gathered around the table with family, making small talk while supper simmers away on the stove. Not that it’s his business to wonder, mind. 

Sam and Cas talk academic subjects for a while, sharing bits of current events they had heard about here and there. Dean gets Emma set up in her crib for her afternoon nap while Jess cleans up. Before long, it’s time to head back out to the field to keep working, and Sam packs up his teacher satchel to head back to his town apartment. Dean gestures for Cas to follow him outside when Sam and Jess start making eyes on each other. 

“I know it’s not very virtuous,” Dean explains as they walk companionably back to the field where the reaper sits, leading Jet by the reigns, “But I don’t see the harm in giving them two a minutes alone time to say goodbye, lovebirds that they are.”

Cas smiles. “I agree. They seem happy. How long have they been engaged?”

Dean scratches his head, hopping aboard the reaper while Cas picks up his rake. “Well, s’not official yet, but the way them two have been circling each other all their lives makes it seem like they were betrothed at birth.”

Cas salutes at that, but then it’s time to start the reaper up again and conversation is lost to the clacking of the blades. 

They do another half-field before it’s time to call it quits, and they get back to the house just as the sun is starting to set over the prairie. Jess already has her wagon hitched up, and lets them know that Emma has just eaten and is in her crib.

Dean goes out to the side of the house, grabbing a basket he had put together earlier.

“That's today's eggs,” Dean explains as he deposits the basket in the back of her wagon, “And near a bushel of green beans.I know you don't have much fresh at the store yet, and the townies are probably clamoring.”

“Dean,” Jess objects, “This is too much.You know there’s no need—”

“Now hush,” Dean interrupts, pushing the full basket under the seat of Jessica’s wagon, “I know you and Sammy are trying to put away some savings for down the road, and don't think for a minute I'm not fit to be tied that you won't let me pay you for all the help you're giving me with Emma.”

Jess just shakes her head as Dean helps her up the wagon wheel. He can’t help but love the girl, especially with the way she loves his brother.

“I’ve got too much produce here for one, well two, men and a little lady who isn't even eating solid food in earnest yet,” Dean informs her, “It’ll only spoil sitting useless in my root cellar, and I know you've got the enterprising mind to make a little profit off my surplus.”

“And you’ll see some of it too, if I have anything to say about it,” she says, letting her bonnet fall against her back, useless in the growing darkness.

Cas already has the animals fed and put up for the night by the time Dean comes to the barn after a quick peek in at Emma. He’s just washing up at the water pump when Dean approaches, thumbs hooked in his suspenders. 

“Thanks, Cas, you did good today,” Dean says, clearing his throat from the road dust kicked up behind Jess’s wagon.

“I’m happy to be helpful.”

Dean smiles, turning toward the sunset on the horizon. “And it’ll be time to do it all over again tomorrow.”

They trudge back up to the house together, putting together some bread and milk for supper, not having the energy to get much else together. Cas bids him goodnight after they eat, and it isn’t long before Dean lays his head down and is fast asleep.

 

* * *

 

In the end it takes them almost two weeks to get all the grain harvested.Cas picks up the rhythm of the machine quickly, and for most of the first week things go smoothly, reaping the wheat and tying it in neat sheafs in the barn to await the thresher.Things come to a halt one day for rain, and the very next day they lose a gear on Dean’s admittedly aged but carefully-maintained mechanical reaper, which requires a trip into town for the replacement part.Between weather and repairs the delays are frustrating, but nothing out of the ordinary in the course of an average harvest.The end result still finds Dean and Cas in the setting sun overlooking the barn, stuffed near full with sheaf after sheaf of golden wheat.

“Now that,” Dean declares, “Is a beautiful picture if I ever saw one.”

Cas nods.“Are we ready for the threshing?”

Dean takes off his hat and runs his fingers through his hair, flicking away some of the chaff that tends to get caught under the felt all day in a wheatfield. 

“As ready as we’ll ever be.” 

The next morning dawns bright and early, and Dean readies for the day with an extra spring in his step.The harvest is done, and in a few short hours he’ll play host to the steam thresher and its entertaining operator, not to mention near half the residents of the county. 

“You said you did a spell with a threshing company?” Dean asks Cas as they open up the barn doors to prepare for their neighbors.All the folks from the surrounding farms are coming to lend a hand to get Dean’s crop processed and ready to go to market.The rest of the week will be the same, everyone taking turns on each other’s land to get the threshing done.The sun is just cresting the horizon, but any time now Balthazar and his team will be arriving with the steam thresher, and they have to be ready.

“I did,” Cas confirms.They feed and water the horses and Betsy before coaxing them out into the paddock where they won’t be underfoot and won’t be bothered by the noise of the machinery on the way.Dean’s wheat crop is waiting in neat sheafs on the threshing floor, shimmery gold in the morning light.They take milk and eggs inside to make breakfast for themselves and Emma and wait for their guests to arrive. 

“Whereabouts?”Dean asks over fried eggs and biscuits.Cas pours them both a coffee, and hands Dean Emma’s bottle.“The threshing company, I mean.”

“Pennsylvania,” he informs him, “It was much less personal than what you do here.The farms there are more…”

“Industrial?” Dean ventures, coaxing Emma into latching onto the rubber bottle nipple.Castiel nods. 

“I prefer your method,” Cas mentions, “The work is much the same, but people seem happier with it.”

Dean laughs.“That’s good to hear,” he says, holding Emma steady while she has her breakfast, “Before I forget, did we get the potatoes out of the root cellar?Jess is going to roast them with the last of the salt pork for supper.”

Cas shakes his head.“I’ll get them after breakfast,” he volunteers, “And we have plenty of apples for another pie.”

“We may as well use them while they’re in season,” Dean agrees.All the farms contribute to each meal for the threshing, and Jess has been lending Dean a hand with his additions.The hosting farm usually provides the main dish, so a big casserole of potatoes and pork will be perfect to feed the hungry farmers.The Fitzgeralds will be bringing bread, the Lafittes are stewing up the surplus vegetables from their garden, and Jody Mills and her sister are baking up a bushel of pies from the berry crop they pulled in from the bushes that grow wild on their land.

Just as Emma is finishing her bottle they hear the jingle of a horse in harness approaching.Dean peeks out the window to see his brother and future sister-in-law pull up the to the house in Jessica’s wagon. 

“It’s Sam and Jess,” he informs Cas, “The rest won’t be far behind.”

The next half hour is a blur of greetings and wagon unloading.It's four families that come together for the threshing, counting the Winchesters as one unit.It'll take two days to thresh all of Dean’s crop, as well as the Fitzgeralds, who are scheduled for Wednesday and Thursday.The Lafittes are mainly a dairy farm, and Jody and Donna Mills mostly corn, both with wheat as a secondary crop.If they can get them all threshed in one day apiece, they’ll have the whole community done in time for a nice rest on Sunday. 

Dean meets each of his guests at the front of the Winchester home with Emma in tow, where they can leave their wagons and bring their provisions in through the front door before the men head to the barn to get started on the day’s mission.The horses are led around to the trough in the barnyard before being set up in the pasture with Jet and Baby for the day. 

First to arrive after Sam and Jess are the owners of the thresher itself, pulled by an honest-to-god team of oxen.They’ll have to go right around to the barn, where their steam engine mechanical thresher will be put to use, but Balthazar Roche was never a man to miss a social opportunity, and he leaps down from the seat of his rig to say hello to his customer. 

“Winchester!” Balthazar greets him with a firm handshake, “Good to see you looking fit.” 

“Balthazar,” Dean replies with a grin, “How’s business?

“Booming, as always, at least this time of year.Where is your lovely wife?” He asks, then jumps as he pretends to notice Emma for the first time, “Good lord, has she shrunk?”

“Always a jokester, this one,” Rachel says as she jumps down, unaided, from their wagon. 

Dean laughs, trying to keep the moment light even as his stomach drops. He had known people would ask about Lydia, had planned for it, but it still stung. 

For some reason, Dean’s eyes flick around the area to find Cas. He’s some distance away, helping Jess carry some extra pots and pans, fully out of earshot. 

“Lydia made a trip back east to see some family taken ill. The journey’s hard, but she should be back soon.”

Dean catches Rachel’s raised eyebrows, her gaze flicking down to Emma before Balthazar not so subtly elbows her.

“...I see,” Balthazar says evenly, “Well, my sister and I will certainly pray for her timely return.” 

“That’s much appreciated,” Dean replies, equally bland.Sometimes he wonders why he bothers with the lie, seeing as Balthazar and his sister will no doubt hear the true story from the town gossips before the day is out.Still, if Lydia comes slinking back to the farm with her tail between her legs it’s for the best that Dean hasn't been cursing her name up and down the territory.A little untruth now might save Emma a lot of shame down the road, so lie Dean will.

“On the bright side we now have this lovely lady to steal our hearts,” Balthazar continues, “Perhaps I have a little something to strike her fancy...”

Dean makes to object, but when Balthazar pulls a scrap of ribbon from his stock of wares Emma’s eyes go round and attentive. 

“For your hope chest, my dear,” Balthazar says, offering Emma a mock bow as he presents his gift.Emma clasps the slip of shiny material in wonder, and then of course immediately sticks in her mouth.Fortunately, the tradesman just laughs.

“Clearly she has excellent taste already,” he chuckles, and Dean smiles.

Cas wanders over and sticks close to Dean after that, and Dean remembers his manners, introducing him to Balthazar and Rachel as they get settled. Other wagons are already starting to roll in, the dust creating a cloud over the road.

Garth Fitzgerald and his wife Bess roll in next, all smiles and just the picture of the perfect homesteading life. Built like a scarecrow but with a heart of gold, he leaps from his wagon to better help his wife down, who’s getting along in her pregnancy. 

“Always good to be at the Winchester estate!” he all but shouts when Dean and Cas make their way over. Dean isn’t surprised when the tall man pulls him into a one-armed hug. Bess makes her quiet but sweet greetings as well.

“Good to see you too, Garth.”

Dean sees them both subtly glance around, all smiles, no doubt wondering if Lydia has slunk back to the farm in time for the threshing, but both are too polite to ask.He's counting on that being the case for all most of the farmers jointing him today.The men aren't likely to mention such things without prompting, and the ladies would never shame Jess by gossiping about the missing Winchester wife when she's so capably stepped in as hostess.

“I'm sure Miss Moore would love to take that parcel off your hands, ma’am,” Dean points out, indicating the large basket of wheat rolls they've brought from their oven at home, “She's holding court in the kitchen if you care to go on through.”

“Oh, of course,” Bess agrees pinking slightly, “Garth, darling, give me a hand with these, won't you?”

Emma chooses that moment to give a finicky wail, overdue for her morning nap, and Dean follows Garth and Bess into the house for a moment to lay her down in her crib.He hightails it back out of the bustling kitchen just as quick in time to see their nearest neighbors parking their wagon. 

“Jody Mills,” Dean calls, jogging up to the wagon where Castiel is assisting the widow Mills and her sister, “It’s been a long while, considering we only live a half mile away.”

“Well I haven’t gotten any of your calling cards either, Dean Winchester,” Jody replies, using Cas's shoulder to balance herself as she climbs down with her wagon, “And I don’t recall ever seeing this handsome young man around these parts.” 

“Castiel Novak.I’m working for Dean through the season,” Cas says tipping his hat, no doubt to hide his blush, “It’s a pleasure.” 

“Mutual, I’m sure.”Jody doesn’t seem over impressed by Cas, but Dean has rarely seen Jody impressed by anything,She’s not unpleasant company, but the prairie can toughen anyone, and Jody Mills more than most. 

“And Donna Hanscum,” Dean announces by way of introduction, kissing Donna’s hand as he helps her down from the opposite side of the rig, “Ma’am, I’ve been waiting all season to enjoy a slice of your famous pie.Is that a new dress?”

“What this old thing?” Donna laughs, “Hardly.And buttering me up doesn’t get you dessert any quicker, mister.” 

“Alright, alright, hands off my sister, Mr. Winchester,” Jody scolds with a barely concealed grin.It’s a well worn joke between them, Dean being a married man and all. 

“It’s just the two of you?” Castiel asks, somewhat more bluntly than Dean is accustomed to hearing from him. 

“Us and the man of the house, of course,” Donna replies, indicating a gangly preteen boy with Jody’s dark hair working on unloading several pie plates from their wagon.Owen has shot up like a weed since Dean last saw him, but he still has that soft look of boyhood about him.

It’s Cas's turn to raise his eyebrows, and Dean frowns, silently reminding him to mind his manners.As long as they got the will for the labor, there ain’t nothing wrong with two ladies sticking together on a homestead in his opinion, especially if they’re kin.He remembers Mr. Mills’ passing when he was hardly more than Owen’s age now, an awful accident that would have scared more than one widow back east, especially with a toddler son.It was fortunate Donna was able to come down from the northern territories to help her sister until Owen was old enough to contribute more to farm work.

“We’re half sisters,” Jody clarifies for Cas with a peculiar look in her eye, no doubt explaining their lack of family resemblance.Castiel’s expression levels out to one that Dean can’t fully interpret, but it’s not malicious in nature, so he allows the two of them to reach their silent understanding without interference.

“Jessica’s inside, getting the kitchen organized,” Dean explains, once Owen joins his mother and aunt with their contribution to supper, “I’m sure she’ll have a cool place reserved for your pies.”

“Right you are,” Donna chirps, “We planned it all out at church last Sunday.”

“I trust we’ll have you and Owen here in the barn to help with the crop,” Dean says to Jody. 

“Of course,” Jody replies, ruffling her son’s hair, “The Mills wouldn’t leave you all a man down.Just give us a holler when it’s time to get started.”

Next to unhitch their wagon are Benny and his bride Andrea.Their two boys, twins still too young to do much besides carry and fetch for the ladies making supper, scurry back and forth to the house loaded down with crockery full of garden vegetables and Andrea’s well loved spicy dressings. 

The Lafittes had come to Kansas as newlyweds, unapologetic with their singular accents and eclectic potluck dishes, looking to make a fresh start out west and escape some bad blood between their families.Some in town were mistrustful, Andrea being so obviously foreign and Benny so obviously Southern, which was almost worse, but the Lafittes have proven themselves a good fit with Ava and her farmers, and Dean counts Benny as a close personal friend. 

“So the old house hasn’t fallen down yet, eh, chief?” Benny ribs him, climbing down from his wagon with more grace than one would expect given his bulky frame.His wife is as like him in her grace as she is unlike him in appearance, with her dark hair and warm olive skin.Benny gives her a helping hand down from the high seat, tucking her hand into the crook of his elbow afterward so as to approach Dean and Cas arm in arm. 

“I’m keeping it up with stubbornness and grit, old man,” Dean replies, “You still up to your ears in cattle?”

“Last I checked,” Benny replies, “We should talk later about a little trading.I’ve got some beef I’m sure could fatten up your larder for the winter if you’re willing to send a few chicks my way for our hen house come springtime.”

“You know I’m all ears. We’re about at our poultry capacity around here,” Dean says clapping Cas on the shoulder, “Have y’all met Cas yet?I hired him on for the season, what with Sam taking a full time position in town.He’s been a big help.”

“You must be the Novak I hear about at Ellen’s,” Benny rumbles, giving Castiel a firm handshake, “The boy she hired on after you is plumb useless, if I’m to believe what I hear at the bar.”

“I’m sure I was just as clumsy, the first few days she hired me,” Cas replies amiably, “Good to know you.” 

One of the boys stumbles under the weight of a large dish, and Andrea bends down to offer him a quiet encouragement in her own tongue, helping her son balance before he teeters off to the kitchen. 

“Is that Greek?” Castiel asks suddenly, looking interested.Andrea straightens, looking self conscious, as if she hadn’t meant to be overheard. 

“It is old...family tongue,” she says, looking down, “I teach it to our boys, so when they are starting school they can help me with better English.”

“Your sons are lucky to grow up with two languages,” Castiel says, shaking her hand, “And your husband is lucky as well, to have claimed one of the Muses as his wife.”

Dean frequently forgets that Cas is well educated, and he and Benny share a brief look of uncertainty at his reference.Andrea on the other hand lights up.

“You are knowing your reading, Mr. Novak,” Andrea notes with a pleased smile, “This is...not usual for farmhand, yes?”

“They were a favored subject in the studies of my youth,” Castiel replies. 

“Of course, English scholar and their ‘classics’,” Andrea says, a little wry, “I know more from stories, as little girl.Long time ago now.”

“Not too long ago,” Benny interjects, putting his arm around his wife’s shoulder somewhat pointedly, “You're still as lovely as the first day I laid eyes on you.”

“Only because I am spoiled by my husband,” Andrea replies graciously, patting his hand, “Is nice meeting you, Mr. Novak, but excuse me.I must be helping our boys before they are breaking any dishes.”

“And we need to get to that mountain of wheat in the barn,” Dean’s brother announces, coming from around the side of the house, dressed for farmwork.Sam offers Benny a nod before informing Dean, “Balthazar is all set up out back.He’s ready to get going whenever we are.”

“I will send out men from house,” Andrea volunteers, making for Dean’s front door.Dean, Benny and Cas walk around with Sam to spare the traffic through his no doubt crowded kitchen.They gather with Garth, Jody and Owen at the entrance to the barn, where Balthazar is adjusting the threshing controls.

“Are you sure you don't want to borrow a few of the ladies’ hairpins?” Dean teases his brother, “It'd be a shame to see that mane looking like a haystack.”

“Just because _some_ of us can’t be bothered with anything but the soldier’s crop doesn’t mean we all have to suffer,” Sam shoots back aloofly, though he does put on his felt hat before the chaff begins to fly.

“Fear not gentlemen,” Balthazar pipes up from the controls of the thresher before Dean can fire a proper retort, “My machine will drown out even the Winchesters’ endless bickering.”

That gets a proper laugh from the rest of the men, whom Dean offers a hand gesture he wouldn’t make if there were any delicate company present.He can hear Cas laughing behind him too, a deep hearty sound that is hard earned from his reserved farmhand, and Dean finds himself grinning as well, despite the teasing. 

“Alright, folks, joke’s over,” Dean calls, still the boss of his own barn, “Whenever you’re ready, Balth, fire her up!Y’all know your positions from last year.Cas, stick with me.”

“Aye aye, _mon capitan,_ ” Balthazar obeys, and in no time has the engine spewing smoke and the gears of the thresher clanking with an almighty racket.At Balthazar’s signal the first sheaf of grain is cut from its twine binding and fed into the machine.A few moments and the first loose kernels of wheat pour out the shaft at the opposite end and the threshing is begun.

After that point things really start to get moving. 

Balthazar works at the gears of his machine like a madman, his dandy jacket tossed aside and his sleeves rolled up, hands streaked with grease.Garth works under Balthazar’s direction to keep the thresher running, shoveling fuel into the pot belly steam engine while Dean and Castiel feed the bulky sheaves of wheat into the thresher’s hungry maw.At the other end of the operation Jody holds the huge grain sacks steady as the freed wheat pours in. She sews the full bags full with a butcher’s needle and passes them off to Benny, who hefts them out to the farm wagon, ready to move to the granary.Sam takes advantage of his height, gathering up the masses of stripped wheat stalks and forking them up to the hayloft where Jody’s son waits with a wooden rake.The young teen will pack the grass in tight, leaving it to dry into hay, which Dean will have to feed his stock for the winter. 

With the grumbling roar of the thresher filling their ears, there isn’t much room for conversation.The unseen inner workings shake and chew the wheat, which adds the strange music of gravel underfoot and ice chips on a tin roof to the underlying cacophony of the steam engine.

It’s back-breaking work, but it’s comforting in its familiarity.It eventually becomes rhythmic, Dean and Cas working in tandem to heft the heavy bundles of wheat onto the angled bed so they can slide into the machine and have their grains shaken loose by the churning wheels inside.The sharper the ache in his back, the more wheat they’ve processed, and the more money Dean will have to put in his coffee can savings at the end of the week.There’s no more satisfying labor, Dean reckons, then seeing his harvest transformed into product ready for market.

They eat a quick lunch standing up, fresh biscuits with butter and cold chicken left from a roast a few days back when one of the hens had quit laying.Working in and out of the barn spares them the worst of the sun, but Andrea still plops a straw hat on Benny’s reddening head and Bess wipes Garth down with a handkerchief before they all take a deep drink of water from the barnyard pump and get back to it.

The stack of unprocessed grain shrinks as the hours slip away, and Dean’s hayloft is near two thirds full when the ladies ring Dean’s rarely used supper bell. 

“Ah, never has a sweeter call been heard,” Bathazar declares, starting the process of shutting down his monster machine. 

“Not a bad day’s work,” Dean declares, clapping Cas on the shoulder as the thresher finally groans its last for the day.Castiel offers him a weary grin, leaning into Dean’s touch.He looks just as worn out as Dean feels, but it’s the good kind of tired, the muscle-deep ache of an hard task done well.

“A very good day’s work,” Cas agrees, taking off his hat to run his hand through his sweat damp hair.The motion pulls his shirt, worn thin from use, tight across his chest and over the curve of his bicep. 

Dean finds his mouth a little dry.He shakes his head, clearing the cobwebs.He’s probably just dehydrated from all the chaff in the air.Dean makes a mental note to get a long drink of water before they sit down to eat.

“C’mon,” he says, voice a little gruffer than he really intended, “The ladies likely have supper on the table.” 

 

* * *

 

Cas stands outside the house, the kerosene lamps throwing a warm glow onto the cool autumn night through the windows. People move about inside, the wives in Dean’s modest kitchen area preparing something that smells just fine, and the men talking and arranging tables and chairs brought from home to accommodate the crowd. He hears a loud guffaw with a drawl to it, must be Dean’s friend Benny Lafitte, followed by the laughs of everyone else. Cas fidgets, turning his hat in his hand once, twice, before moving to fix his suspenders and attempting to flatten his hair. 

“Do not worry,” he hears behind him, “You look fine.”

Cas turns to see Lafitte’s wife, Andrea had been her name, standing behind him, holding a small satchel she must have been fetching from their wagon. 

“Didn’t mean–” she searches for the words, “To scare.”

Cas holds his hands up, offering the friendliest smile he can muster. “You didn’t. Can I help you with that?”

Andrea shakes her head. “Thank you.” She turns to look at the house, a wistful expression on her face. 

“I–” she starts, “I know. Being on outside. It is hard.”

Cas smiles, wondering what it has been like for this dark haired, olive-skinned woman to live on the prairie full of blonde ringlets and suspicious eyes. He suddenly feels foolish for his anxiety. No one questions his presence, but they’ve most certainly questioned Andrea’s.

“Can I escort you in?” he asks, offering an arm. 

She smiles. “Thank you.”

They go in, their entrance mostly ignored due to the crowd of men enthralled with Balthazar, who appears to be in the middle of a story. The women talk in hushed voices by the stove and table, clearly listening as well, and Andrea moves quietly to join them.

“... So there I was, in the middle of the Wisconsin woods, with nothing but a one-shot pistol in my hand and in naught but my shirtsleeves and trousers, and there in front of me stood a bear. No– !” he cuts off at a listener’s snort, Cas sees it had come from Dean, who’s shaking his head and smirking. “Not just any bear! But a bear so tall that the trees cowered before it, the very sky seemed small in comparison! I told myself I only had one shot. I _had_ to get my bullet between its eyes or I would be done for. There’d be no running from a beast like this. I lined up my pistol, squeezed an eye shut and–”

He pauses dramatically, the whole house quiet enough in anticipation, the wind set it to creaking. 

“And?” Dean prompts, genuine interest creeping past his cynicism.

Balthazar’s face relaxes, settling into a smile. “And then she let out a mighty roar, and out came a cub from behind her, barely tall enough to reach my knee. I could see that I had to make myself look non-threatening–or else I’d not stand a chance against a mama bear. So…”

“Yeah??” Garth urges, white-knuckling a kitchen chair. 

“So I clutched my heart, heaved a couple of last breaths, and put on a performance worthy of a New York stage, doing the best false heart attack I could muster. I collapsed to the ground, and moved no more. I swear that bear lumbered right over to smell me, her giant maw only inches from my face. And then…”

“Get a move on, Balthazar,” Jody says, one hand on her hip and rolling her eyes.  


Balthazar smirks, “And then she lumbered off, leaving me none the worse for wear. ‘Cept a little damp mayhaps.”

Everybody groans, relaxing and laughing after the stress of the story. Dean turns, catching Cas's eye and shaking his head. 

“Didn’t even see you come in, Cas,” Dean says, beckoning him over, “Sorry you had to witness Balt’s sad excuse for storytelling. Entertainment’s scarce on the prairie.”

Balthazar clutches his chest, feigning offense. “It’s like I barely know you, Dean Winchester.”

“Don’t scare the poor man,” Sam says, laughing good-naturedly, “He’s only been around these parts for a few weeks and it’s hard enough putting in an honest day’s work without being heckled by the likes of all you.”

“Thank you, Sam,” Cas manages, laughing through his shyness. 

“Supper time!” Jess calls, as the women start to move large dishes of food to the table. They settle in, the table big enough to fit all with its mismatched chairs and uneven seams. Cas takes a seat across from Dean and next to Jody, surprised that the men and women were all eating together. 

“You always did know how to ruin a good story, Balthazar,” Lafitte says after they all settle in, rolling his eyes while he digs into the delicious meal the women had prepared.

“Better get in control of that violent streak there, Lafitte.” Balthazar corrects him, taking a plate from Jess, “Not all stories got to end with blood and gore.”

“Amen,” Jody mutters, eyes downcast. Cas furrows his brow, but Dean manages to catch his eye, shaking his head. Cas turns away, looking back down at his food. 

“Besides,” Balthazar continues, oblivious, “I wasn’t about to ruin our appetites. Jessica, this is some mighty fine grub.”

Jess blushes the color of radishes against her fair skin. “I had help–”

Garth’s wife pipes up. “Yes, but you’re the brains behind the operation.”

Jess continues to stammer doubt but Cas watches as Sam beams with pride at his wife-to-be. He feels a rush of affection for both of them, with their whole life so neatly laid out before them. He swallows hard, a lump forming in his throat. 

“S’matter, Cas?” Dean asks after the chatter dies down, a real look of concern on his face, “You look like you just got kicked by Betsy.”

The whole table roars laughter at that, and Cas manages to join in, masking his strange moment. 

The dinner passes, along with the pie (“Goddamn finally,” Dean exclaimed when Jody set a piece of her famous blackberry pie in front of him, earning him a smack for swearing. “Worth it,” Dean said, giving Cas a playful wink,) and then it’s time for the visitors to pack up and head back to their homesteads, arms laden with their freshly washed dishes and leftovers wrapped in cloth. Dean shakes everyone’s hand on their way out, thanking them for the help. 

Lafitte lingers at the door, talking farm equipment with Dean for next year’s harvest, and Andrea turns to Cas. 

“It is good you help,” Andrea says, “We are all sad for Dean, what happen with Lydia.”

Lafitte stops talking to throw his wife a cautionary look, which Andrea shrugs off. 

“It is good you help,” she repeats, louder and with a nod. She holds out a hand, and Cas takes it, accepting her warm smile and regards.

“Great to meet you both,” he says, nodding at Benny too. 

Benny nods, taking Andrea’s arm and disappearing into the night. Cas stares out at it as Dean turns to go to Emma in her crib.

“Does anyone need help hitching up their wagons?” Cas asks, still looking out at their visitors milling about as they prepare to leave. 

“Nah,” Dean says, and Cas turns to see him cradling Emma in his arms, “It’s been a long day. Take a load off, Cas.”

Cas nods, scratching the back of his head. “Thank you for–well–”

Dean laughs under his breath. “Spit it out Cas.”

“For making me feel welcome, I suppose.”

Dean smiles, genuine warmth behind all the mischief in his eyes. “Don’t mention it. Not sure where you’ve been Cas, but folks around here have manners. Even if you’re getting paid to do something or other.”

Cas nods, his chest tightening. He ignores the feeling, reaching for his coat hanging on the hook beside the door. “I think I’ll head out.”

Dean doesn’t looks up, locked in a funny face battle with Emma. “Night, Cas.”

Cas swallows hard again before he turns on his heel and heads back to the barn, feeling for all the world like he was forgetting something.

 

* * *

 

A large sack of flour. 

A tin of coffee.

A packed brick of brown sugar.

A glass jar of molasses.

A packet of salt, and a tiny envelope of cinnamon. 

A barrel of salt pork, and a side of fresh bacon.

A paper wrapped block of lard.

A sack of milled oats.

A tin of oysters, to put away for Christmas.

A box of safety matches.

A new pair of suspenders.

 

“You are greatly enjoying this,” Castiel observes as Dean checks items off his supply list.

“You bet your ass,” Dean says with a grin after checking to make sure there are no ladies within earshot, “The hard work is done, buddy.This is the fun part.”

This is the one time of year that Dean actually has cash to spend. Most of the farmer’s fiscal year is spent in debt, paying the general store and the blacksmith and whatnot on credit while he waits for crops to grow.After a successful threshing and selling of their surplus grain, today’s the day that Dean, and the rest of Ava’s farmers, get to pay off all their tabs, as well as stock up for the coming winter. He’s only been taking crops to market for a few years now completely on his own, and it’s still a huge relief come every late October to know that he’s completely in the black, with a little left over for his savings. 

“Alrighty, that's all the essentials,” Dean says, folding up his list, “Now for a luxury or two.What can I get you, Cas?”

“What are you talking about?” Castiel asks, “You've already paid me, at a fairer wage than I could have found elsewhere.”

“Yeah, but that's the serious stuff. This is something just for fun, because we had a good crop and we're not going to starve this winter. For example,” Dean suggests, pointing to himself, “I've got my eye on a tin of Andrea Lafitte's baklava.It ain't pie, but it is damn delicious, and it’s a foolish extravagance that I can only afford this time of year.” 

Cas is hesitant, despite Dean's encouragement.

“I can pay for my own material needs-”

“C’mon Cas, live a little,” Dean urges him, “We’ll call it a bonus.”

Castiel fidgets uncomfortably.“I could use a new packet of sewing needles, I suppose,” he admits begrudgingly.

“There you go,” Dean says, slapping Cas on the back before calling the attention of Mr. Moore behind the shop counter and adding a book of needles to his order.

They settle the books with Mr. Moore and load up the wagon, covering Dean’s purchases with a blanket to keep off the sun before meandering down main street.Dean keeps waiting for Cas to split off on his own, to inquire about work, or look into train schedules, what with harvest being over, but the moment never comes.The man seems content to follow Dean and Emma around on their errands, and Dean is definitely not about to chase him off.

They stumble upon Ellen and Jo Harvelle out front of the saloon, sorting out their own pile of deliveries to keep the hotel and tavern running through the winter.Ellen pauses in recording their inventory to say hello.

“Mrs. Harvelle,” Dean greets her with teasing formality, as if the Winchesters and Harvelles haven’t been neighbors since before he was born, “How goes the barkeeping business?” 

“We’ve got plenty of full rooms, what with all the tradesmen in town for the harvest cash,” Ellen says, “As long as we don’t run out of whiskey it should be a hearty winter.Did you all pull in a good crop?”

“As good as I hoped for,” Dean replies, “And it was lighter work with Cas here to share the load.”

“I’m glad I wasn’t mistaken in my recommendation,” Ellen says, shaking Cas's hand, “You’re looking fit, Novak.” 

“Dean is a very generous employer,” Castiel says mildly.

“He was a big help,” Dean insists, bouncing Emma a little in his arms, “He learned quick, and gave me more time to spend on this little lady.”

Emma coos, playing with the ribbons of her bonnet, and Ellen laughs at her antics.

“She’s looking fine,” Ellen says warmly, letting Emma grab her fingers, “How old is she now?”

“Lord, she must be near six months,” Dean admits.He hadn’t been thinking on the time passing by, but here they are a half a year into his daughter’s life and Lydia is still nowhere to be found. 

“The time flies when they’re still in diapers,” Ellen agrees, “But I imagine you ain’t had her christened yet.”

Dean fidgets under Ellen’s maternal disapproval.“Not yet,” he admits, “It didn’t seem right without her mother.I’ll speak to Reverend Shurley on it.”

Dean is spared Ellen’s well-known opinions about his wayward wife and Cas's look of puzzled concern when they hear a decidedly unladylike curse from a few feet away.

“I better not be hearing that language outta your mouth, Joanna Beth,” Ellen says, turning to her daughter, who is currently knee deep in the stack of recently delivered supplies for the tavern.

“This one must be the new bed frame, Ma,” Jo calls, huffing as she tries to lift a box that looks like it weighs more than she does, “It ain’t that big a crate, but I can’t budge it.”

“Leave it, then, honey,” Ellen replies, “That’s going all the way upstairs to the new suite.It’ll have to wait ‘til Ash gets back from the smith.”

“I can give y’all a hand,” Dean offers.

“If you don’t mind,” Ellen says after a pause, “It doesn’t do well to leave a shipment on the sidewalk any longer than I have to.”

“It’s no trouble,” Dean says, holding Emma out to Cas, “Take her for a second, will you?”

“Um, alright.” 

“It’s just up the back stairs,” Ellen says, glancing at Cas before giving Dean an indecipherable look, “I’ll show you.”

Dean nearly has the heavy crate to the top of the staircase when it occurs to him that he just handed off his only child to a relative stranger without so much as a second thought.Ellen seems to be of a similar way of thinking, since she shoos him off as soon as he settles the crate securely on the second floor. 

Dean won’t pretend his heart isn’t in his throat when he steps back outside and Cas and Emma are nowhere to be found.Fortunately after only a brief moment of terror, Dean hears his daughter’s signature squeal and follows the sound around the corner where Castiel is helping Emma to pat one of the horses tied up out front of the saloon only a few feet away.

“I thought you two up and vanished,” Dean says, hoping his tone comes off funny and not frantic.Castiel offers an apologetic smile, bouncing Emma gently in his arms.

“Emma turned a little fussy, so I thought a distraction was in order,” he explains, “Is everything set with Ellen?”

“Right as rain,” Dean says quickly, “I can take Half-pint off your hands now.”

Castiel surrenders Emma without complaint, and Dean feels right foolish for his panic.Emma is happy as a clam, and she coos, tugging on the leather tie of Dean’s hat.

“We’d better skedaddle on over to Andrea’s booth,” Dean prompts, “Mrs. Lafitte is liable to sell out and then I’ll be up a creek without any baklava.”

A short walk down main street they secure Dean’s desired baked goods and enjoy a few minutes gossip with the Lafittes before heading back to the farm with their treasures.Dean pulls the wagon around to the barnyard and lets Cas unhitch the horses while he sets Emma up for a late afternoon nap in the house. 

Once all animals and babies are seen to, they sort Dean’s store purchases.Dry goods go in the house, where Dean replaces the near empty barrels and burlap sacks sitting sad on his kitchen shelves with their fresh counterparts.Matches go in the coffee tin on the bookshelf, and Dean adds a nail in the wall for his new cast iron pot, a little two-quart sauce pan with a notched spout on each side.It’s too small for most practical cooking, but it’s just the right size to heat up milk for Emma, and the spout is going to make pouring into a nursing bottle a hell of a lot easier.If Dean isn’t meant to have any more children, he’ll make it a gift to Sam and Jess once Emma is on all solid foods.

By the time Dean is sorted in the house Castiel has all the perishables in the root cellar.It’s an easy task between the two of them to get everything put in its proper place, with only the occasional word from Dean to show where a certain good needs to be stored.They leave the meat and produce in the cool dark cellar, bringing only a few thick slices of bacon to add to a pot of baked beans for their supper.

It’s easy between them, heating up a bottle for Emma and taking off their boots after a busy day in town. 

“I should be moving on soon,” Cas sighs, once the dinner plates are clean.Dean is feeding a sleepy Emma and Cas is putting his new sewing needles to use patching the elbow of one of his undershirts.

“Oh?”

“It would be wise,” Castiel continues, eyes on his even row of stitches, “Once winter arrives traveling will be a lot more risky.”

Dean feels a funny pang behind his lungs that he realizes is disappointment.It’s been...good, having Cas around.Having a friend.

Dean just nods, trying not to let Castiel see his reluctance.This day’s been coming since the beginning.

“But perhaps I could remain for a few more days?” Castiel asks, hands fiddling nervously with the shirt he’s mending, “Just until I get word of another opportunity.”

“...of course,” Dean replies, ignoring the swoop of relief in his gut, “No need to run out the door.”

Cas's smile is soft but present.“Thank you.”

 

* * *

 

With the crop sold, Cas finds his days freer than before. He helps Dean clean and stow the farming equipement for another season, harvests another round of the garden vegetables, and continues to help with the daily chores so that Dean can better parent Emma. It’s a pleasant life, and Cas enjoys the calm routine of it, but the reality of his situation gets more and more dire every day. Picking up and going has never been a problem before, as much as he tired of his nomadic lifestyle, but this time feels different. Harder.

“Hey, Cas,” Dean calls, “C’mere.”

Cas pauses his game of peek-a-boo with Emma to look up at Dean standing in the doorway, hair rustled from the wind blowing past the threshold. Cas stands up, joining him at the doorway to see dark and churning clouds where there had been blue sky that morning. 

“Looks like a storm,” Dean says. “This late in the season is weird, but at least the crops are all in.” 

“The weather has been warm…” Cas mutters, looking up at the churning dark sky, his shirt sticking to him from the humidity. His thoughts stray back to the hurricane storm he had witnessed as a 10-year-old boy in Maine, and, without thinking about it, he crosses himself. 

He regrets it immediately when he sees Dean looking at him strangely, eyebrows furrowed. 

“Better batten down and get into the storm cellar,” Dean says, glazing over the subject, looking away and gesturing to the sky, “You could be in for your first Kansas twister, if I'm not mistaken.”

Cas swallows, nerves churning in his stomach that have nothing to do with the storm. Dean doesn't give him a chance to explain himself, however, turning away to start preparing. 

“Alright, Half-pint, time for us to play prairie dogs and get underground,” Dean says to Emma. 

Cas snaps out of it, turning around to start gathering supplies. He hadn't seen the Winchester storm cellar, but common sense dictates that it probably has a dirt floor. He grabs an old blanket for the ground and one of the small ones for Emma, along with a candle and a book of matches he slips into his shirt pocket. 

He hands Dean the small quilt, and Dean takes it without looking at him, wrapping Emma up to ward off the wind. He looks up after a moment, nodding at Cas's supplies. 

“At least you got common sense.”

They're outside in under five minutes, Dean shielding his eyes from the wind. Cas tries to yell over it. 

“I'll go secure the animals, you get Emma inside!” 

Dean stops at his words, looking down at Emma. Cas knows he's torn between taking care of Emma himself and making sure his livelihood is secure. 

“Dean,” Cas says, stumbling as the wind picks up. He tries to look him in the eye despite the rain that's starting to fall. “I'll take care of it. Get Emma to safety.”

At that moment the wind kicks up, ripping a few shingles off the roof of the lean-to. Emma starts to cry, her face twisted into a grimace. 

“Shhh.” Dean holds her against his shoulder, “Alright. Turn the animals out of the barn. We’ve a better chance getting them that way then digging them out of a collapsed barn.” Cas nods, starting to move away.

“And Cas!” Dean calls over the wind, holding Emma’s face to his shoulder, worry lines etched into his own. “You get to the cellar as fast as you can.”

Cas swallows hard and nods, clearing his head of any nonsense for the time being and turning on his heel to head for the barn. He kicks into a run mid-stride.

He makes it to the barn to find Jet and Baby pacing within their stall; they run out of the barn as soon as their doors are opened at the sound of a loud thunderclap. He turns to Betsy’s stall, finding her cowering in the corner. 

He starts tying a rope around her neck. “We’ve got a bit of a weather situation, Bets. You gotta run.”

Betsy lets out a stressed moo, digging her feet into the ground covering. “You’re a Kansas cow!” He yells, pulling on the rope and feeling nothing short of ridiculous. Lightning flashes through the crack in the boards. “Surely you must be used to this.”

After a minute more of coaxing she concedes, allowing Cas to lead her outside. It’s darker outside and the rain falls hard enough now that he can just barely see, and he slips the soaked rope off from around Betsy’s neck and she runs at the next clap of thunder. 

His clothes soaked through and his ears clouded with rain, Cas stumbles nearly blind around the barn. If he hadn’t walked passed the storm cellar everyday on his way to the house and helped Dean store potatoes for winter, he might have missed it in the pounding rain. He finds the wooden latch door with his foot and stamps down on it three times before backing up. It flies open, Dean’s head momentarily poking up. 

“What took you so long?” he yells, barely audible over the wind.

“Betsy.”

Dean rolls his eyes, beckoning for Cas to descend into the cellar. The stairs creak under his feet but as soon as he’s in Dean hauls the door shut, busying himself with the latch. Cas fumbles for the candle in his pocket and lights it, setting it on a stand on the shelf for that purpose. Emma is lying on the quilt Dean had wrapped her in to bring her outside, crying loud enough to rival the storm. 

Cas walks over to her, stooping down to his knees in the low cellar. He picks her up, holding her close to his chest. “Shh, little lady, we’re all safe now. No reason to cry.”

He rocks her until her cries settle into a softer whine, her face buried in his shoulder. The weather rages outside, the wind whistling at a pitch Cas hadn’t yet heard on the prairie. “Can’t keep this up very long, Emma. God just gets into a fury sometimes, like when you cry when your Dad is late with your bottle.”

Cas hears a snickering, and he looks up to see Dean standing at the foot of the stairs, smiling at them. Heat rises to Cas's face. 

“Apologies. I just didn’t want her to feel scared,” he explains. 

“Cas.” Dean shakes his head, striding over, “If I didn’t trust you, you’d have lost an arm by now.”

Something swoops in Cas's stomach when Dean stoops down to collect Emma from his arms. Her body jerks with soft hiccups, but her face is relaxed now. Dean leans back against an empty shelf, sitting down and laying Emma against his chest. Cas's eyes blur at the sight of Dean, disheveled from the storm and dimly lit from the candlelight. He looks away, clearing his throat and swallowing hard. 

Time slows. The rain pounds away at the cellar door and Dean sings softly to Emma under his breath for a while, his voice eventually dissipating into a hum before falling silent altogether. He strokes back her blonde hair, golden in the candlelight. 

“What was that you did, when we were looking at the storm?” Dean asks.

Cas tenses up. “What do you mean?” 

Dean rolls his eyes “Gonna make me work for it, I suppose.” He adjusts Emma, making some approximation of the sign of the cross with his left hand and somewhat backwards. 

Cas can't help but chuckle at that. He demonstrates it properly. “It's called the sign of the cross.”

Dean’s eyebrows dip. “That something folks back east do?”

“It's something Catholics do,” he says simply. “It was just an old habit.”

Dean sits back, and Cas finds himself looking at the ground, anywhere but at Dean’s eye. He thinks about his father, losing business deals when his crucifix fell out of his shirt, and his mother, putting her veil away a week after her husband died to not appear too overt. He knew this situation had to be too good to be true. 

“We all got some of those,” Dean says, his tone back to casual, “Seems like you might be lonely. Prairie’s not known for its Catholic population.”

Cas smiles, deflating somewhat. “Luckily I don't feel too much connection to the church. It's just a personal thing.”

“Personal,” Dean repeats. The door rattles at a particularly strong gust of wind. “You being Catholic doesn't bother me, Cas.”

“I understand if you wouldn't want me to stay after knowing–”

“Shush,” Dean says, smiling, “I've heard you praying in tongues from your room in the barn, so it's not like I didn't have some idea.”

Cas laughs in earnest, feeling relief like he hasn't in a long time. “Praying in tongues… Dean Winchester you are one of a kind.”

Dean smiles. “I don't have room to judge a man on how he deals with life. I've never even been a church goer myself.”

“I’d wondered…” Cas muses, looking up as a soft tapping beings against the wooden door.

Dean follows his lead, looking up. “That’s hail.”

“Sounds like it,” Cas says, “At least the crops are sold and done.”

“Yeah.” Dean shivers, as if the alternative was enough to set his teeth on edge. “Happened to my father once. Lost the whole crop.”

“How did he manage?”

Dean shrugs. “Somehow, I suppose. Never really asked him about it. Might have sold some stock. Wasn’t the first time he almost lost the bet with Uncle Sam.”

“How old were you?”

“Four or five. I remember running around in the destroyed wheat field, not even realizing that it could have been the ruin of us.”

Cas nods, hugging a knee to his chest. “Children do have that power. Emma settled down just because we told her it would be alright.”

“Must be nice,” Dean mutters, low enough that Cas could barely hear him, “Having someone to depend on, like that.”

Silence settles over them, and they sit in stillness of the cellar as the hail pounds above them. It stops within a few minutes, Dean nods at Cas. 

He gets up, unlatching the door to poke his head outside. Small pebbles of hail litter the ground around the door, but the clouds are receding. He looks down into the cellar. 

“All clear.”

Dean takes Emma back to the house to lie down in her crib before joining Cas on the front porch with Cas to assess the damage. 

“Some damage to the barn roof, and the house. Doesn’t look like the tornado touched down here,” Cas says, arms crossed. 

“Yeah,” Dean says. Cas looks at him, and his eyes are far away and anxious. 

“Dean?”

“Yeah.” He seems to snap out of it, turning to Cas. “I know you were set to move on soon, but I could use some help with the roof, and some repairs, at least before winter starts. I’ll pay extra, of course.”

Cas pauses, nerves returning to his stomach in the form of a dangerous swooping. He scratches at the hairs on the back of his neck, trying to suppress his foolishness. 

“I’d be glad to help.”

Dean smiles, his shoulders sagging in something that looks like relief. 

“Good to hear,” he says, clapping Cas on the shoulder. “I’m gonna go heat a bottle for Emma. Come on inside when you’re ready.”

Cas smiles and nods. Dean disappears back into the house, and he crosses his arms over his chest.

His shoulder burns from where Dean’s hand had been and he sighs, his eyes falling shut. Somehow, the image of Dean Winchester in the middle of the storm, wind whipping through his hair while he clutched his daughter and looking at Cas with worry and affection, would be a hard one to turn from his mind.

 

* * *

It could have been so much worse.A few roof patches on the house and barn and the west side of the paddock fence needing replacing is hardly even worth complaining about.Hell, Dean probably would have been doing most of the same repairs to get ready for winter anyway.The storm just made them a little more urgent.With Sam and Jess reporting similarly minor damage in town, it looks like Ava’s been spared a much worse fate.

Still, it’s a mighty relief to have Cas around.What would have been a struggle for one is just a good few days’ work for two, and with Cas to pick up the slack Dean doesn’t have to bring his work to a standstill to run in and check on Emma in the house.With the harvest in and the weather turning chill Dean can finally keep Emma at home, and spare her the ride into town twice a day.With repairs just around the house and barn Emma can stay nice and comfy in her crib with the door cracked so Dean can hear if she starts to cry.

Keeping the house warm and snug is their priority, so the first clear morning after the storm finds Dean and Cas climbing up to the roof of the house with a hammer, nails, and a stack of fresh pine shingles.

Cas finds his balance and stands, perched on the sharp slant of the roof as easy as a prairie wren.At Dean’s nervous urging he drops down to a crouch, though he continues to stare out at the empty fields with a strange sort of longing.

“Not afraid of heights then,” Dean observes, passing Cas a pair of stiff canvas gloves so they can start tearing away the damaged or rotten shingles. 

Castiel smiles, a little wistful. 

“It’s so flat here,” he says, “Even now I hardly feel as if I’m off the ground.”

“You used to mountains?”Dean shows Cas how to use the hammer teeth to tear up a broken shingle and toss it off the roof to the yard below. 

“Cliffs,” Cas explains, working his way through a row of damage, “Rocky shores....the sea.I lived...well, you could hear the waves crash from our back door.” 

“Ma used to tell stories,” Dean shares, “Her family used to take trips to the shore.Kinda hard for me to picture though.”

“There really is no fit comparison,” Cas murmurs.

“You miss it.”It’s plain to see in the tightness of Cas's eyes and the subtle downturn of his mouth as he speaks. 

“I miss the salt in the air,” Cas admits, “And the colors, though I feel that less keenly with the coming of winter.”

Dean can’t imagine the approach of winter as a balm to homesickness.Winter is drab and dead, bringing worry for supplies and health.The farm is more secure now, but as a child winter always brought the threat of hunger and hardship.His only good memories of the snowy season are found inside, bundled away from the icy cold.The glow of the hearth, and the warm aromas of winter soups and stews his mother made to stretch their stores as far as they could go. 

But Cas looks at the cold skies with...fondness.There is a fearsome beauty to it, Dean can admit.The steel gray daylight turns the remains of the harvest gold to silver, and the rich soil a cool blue-black.A gust of wind moves across the prairie in an elegant wave, and Dean can almost imagine the crash of tides and a splash of sea foam. 

There is a touch of grief in Cas's gaze, but mostly longing until he sighs and shakes his head with a self-deprecating grin.

“I’ll admit,” he continues, breaking the meditative silence, “I am content to live without the Nor’easters.”

Dean laughs, a nail between his teeth as he lays down the first of the new shingles.They settle into a steady rhythm of work, heeding the wind’s warning of rain, or even snow, on the way.After an hour Cas strips off his worn coat, more for the ease of movement than anything, since the strong breeze keeps the air cool and crisp.Dean is even more careful after that not to let his eyes wander.

“There _is_ talk in town of a hard winter on the way,” Dean mentions, keeping his tone conversational, “No hurricanes, but it probably won’t be fit for travel.”

“Is that so?”

“Mm.Might even stop the trains for a few weeks.” 

Cas stays quiet, ripping up the last of the damage.Dean is catching up, quicker at hammering in the shingles after years of little repairs. 

“You could stay,” Dean offers, eyes determinedly on his work, “It wouldn’t be as much in the way of pay as you might find elsewhere but I’d help you save a little and Lord knows when the snows come it’d be nice to have another body to help with the animals so I don’t have to leave Emma alone as much.She’s gonna be crawling in earnest soon and I won’t be able to turn my back for ten seconds with the stove on all hours.” 

“Dean.”

Cas eyes are bright with amusement. 

“Yeah?”

“I like working beside you,” Cas says, with his way of plain speaking that fills Dean with envy, “I’ll think about it.”

“Well.”Dean tosses the hammer back in its bucket and hands it to Cas.“Good.It’s getting on....Better start dinner I guess.”

“I’ll finish these last few and wash up,” Cas agrees.

Dean scoots across the roof to the ladder.He’s got one foot on the top rung when another thought occurs to him. 

“Cas?”

Cas looks up in the middle of rolling up his shirt sleeves, framed by the looming stormclouds like a Biblical tableau.Another gust of wind drags its fingers through his dark hair leaving it mussed and feathery over his brow.With bright eyes and a flush to his cheeks from the chill,Cas glows against the stark gray and black surrounding them.

Dean swallows around a suddenly dry mouth.

Spring planting,” he blurts, “You know, takes two really.”

Cas smiles and Dean feels a thrill of vertigo that has nothing to do with how high he is above the ground.

“I’ll be in shortly,” Castiel promises.

~

Cas shears another strip off of the pencil he had purchased weeks ago from Jessica Moore, the pencil getting sharper and sharper with each pass of the knife. Sharp enough, he knows it’s good enough to write with, and his stalling tactic has all but run out. 

With each scrape against the sharp wood, he remembers, and waits for the onslaught. 

_The creak of the bed next to him is unmistakeable, piercing through the darkness like a knife._

_“Cas?”_

_“Don’t.”_

_A sigh. Cas is used to it. Someone is always exasperated with him._

_“Cas,” Zeke tries again, less of a question this time. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking. Please forgive me.”_

_Cas sits up at that, eyes adjusting enough to the dark dormitory that he can see the outline of Zeke in the bed across the small room._

_“Forgive?” he asks, his voice little more than a whisper._

_“I was out of line,” Zeke answers, “I thought–I don’t know what I thought. But it is inexcusable.”_

_“Zeke–”_

_“I can only hope I haven’t lost you as a friend, but if you wish that then I will honor it. If you mean to turn me in...”_

_Cas sits frozen for a moment, heart beating hard against his chest, fast enough to send him jumping from his bed and onto Ezekiel’s, straddling his legs over the covers and stifling his babbling with one hand over his mouth._

_“Zeke,” Cas says, barely an exhalation, “Ezekiel. I could never do any such thing, not when the feelings are wholly mutual.”_

_Castiel feels thankful at that moment. Thankful for the quiet, thankful for living in a room with a sturdy lock on its door, thankful that the moon chose to shine dimly that night._

_Otherwise, he might not have dipped down to kiss his friend, square on the mouth._

_Zeke responds immediately, groaning as Cas pushes a hand into his hair. His lips are warmer than they had been earlier, when he had kissed him under the archway in the winter chill.They are pliant as Cas tilts his head to the side to deepen the kiss, tongues sliding together as Zeke finally breaks position and moves his hands under Cas's sleeping shirt, smoothing over the muscles of his back._

_They should talk; they should look each other in the eye and make sure they both want to go down this path, but Cas only sinks further into his embrace, lining up their hips where Zeke’s erection mirrors his own. When he throws his head back from the sensation, Cas kisses up his exposed neck, searching out more paths of stubbled, heated skin._

_“Cas…” Zeke says, breathlessly._

_Cas moves his hips against his, their sleeping shirts rucking up from the motion until their cocks are flush together. Cas buries his head in Zeke’s shoulder, teeth grazing softly at the muscle as they build to a rhythm together._

_It’s a flurry of sensation, and Castiel surprises himself when he has enough sense to take them both in hand, moving over them with smooth strokes of his palm. Zeke moans in earnest now, and Cas claps another hand over his mouth to stifle the sound, his own pleasure taking the form of harsh breaths tearing at his throat._

_Zeke spends himself first, back arching as streaks of white cover his lower abdomen. At the picture of his friend’s face, frozen in ecstasy, Castiel surges up, kissing him hard as he thrusts into the wetness at the juncture of his hip–once, twice, until Zeke is shaking from overstimulation and Cas is spending himself with a groan. ._

_They lie still for a few moments, Zeke’s hands making their way under Cas's shirt to feel over his chest, thumbs flicking at his nipples. Cas hisses at the contact, spent cock giving a last twitch amongst their combined mess. He closes his eyes, knowing when he opens them he won’t be able to let go, won’t be able to stop where this is heading._

_When he opens them, Zeke is staring at him softly. Cas expected panic, disgust, anything but this. When Zeke presses a soft palm to his face, he can only lean into it._

_“Cas…” he says, barely above a whisper, “What do we do now?”_

He comes back to the present with a hard swallow, his hand clenching around the knife to the point of pain. He drops it, the dull thud loud in the relative quiet of the barn.

His pencil is sharp. His memory fades as tears spill from his eyes, but it never truly goes away. It was the good memories that hurt the most, the happiness that he had felt in those moments had been so complete, so real. The memory of it tears at his heart. 

He exhales. His pencil is sharp now. 

He poses it over the paper sitting on his nightstand, keeping close to the light of the kerosene lamp. The wind whips around the barn outside, pulling and shifting the worn walls. He pays it little mind however, concentrating instead on writing out a greeting that sets his hand to shaking. 

_Dear Anna_


	3. Winter

_John Winchester always manages to be sage, even on his deathbed._

_“A man’s joy should be his wife,” he rumbles, pale and haggard, “And children his pride.I want that for you, Dean.”_

_“I’ll start courting,” Dean promises, kneeling at his father’s side, “I’ll find a good match.Like you and Ma.”_

_John smiles at the mention of his wife.He’s drifting off again though.After this last month of sickness Dean can tell the signs.To his surprise, before his father falls asleep he reaches out and pats him on the head, like he used to do when Dean was barely knee high._

_“You were a good boy,” John slurs, exhaustion lining his face, “‘ll be a good father, one day, too.”_

_Dean manages to hold back his tears until his father falls asleep._

Emma is bright eyed, bushy tailed, and freshly changed before the first light of dawn.Dean bounces her in his arms, his daughter’s cheerful energy banishing the last traces of melancholy left over from an unhappy dream.With his morning trip to the barn still in store, Dean lays Emma down in her crib, dodging a playful kick from a bootied foot. 

“Now you do me a favor and stay put til I get my chores done,” Dean says, wrapping a thick scarf around his neck, “You may be on the move, Half-pint, but I’m not ready for a full on jail-break just yet.”

“Guh,” Emma promises, already more focused on grabbing her own feet. 

“At least you’re still easy to keep entertained,” Dean muses, smiling before pulling on his coat and boots and heading for the barn.

It’s been a dry winter thus far, but they’d likely have a heavy snow by Christmas, if not sooner.And dry, of course, doesn’t mean warm.Dean wears the same winter gear in the clear predawn light as he would in a blizzard.He pushes open the barn door the few feet he needs to slip inside and let the horses out for water. 

He pauses outside Betsy’s stall when he notices Cas's room is still dark.Normally Dean is greeted by the flicker of lamplight as Castiel finishes getting ready for the day before helping with the morning chores. 

“Hey, sleepy head,” Dean calls, “Are you planning to laze around all day?It’s nearly sun up.”

There’s a sudden shuffling from Cas's end of that tells Dean he must have woken the man up.

“Ah...good morning,” he hears, Cas voice rough and sleep worn, “I'll be right along.”

Even in his wool coat Dean can feel the drop in temperature as he moves past Baby’s stall to the makeshift bedroom Cas calls home.Dean leans his elbows on the half wall that partitions Cas's sleeping quarters from the main floor of the barn.Castiel is sitting up, trying to light his lamp with tight, shaking fingers. 

The man is plain shivering, even with a thick quilt still pulled up to his waist.Dean frowns. 

“Cas.You’re cold out here.”

Cas nearly startles, swearing uncharacteristically when he drops his match.When he finally gets the lamp lit Dean can see the circles under his eyes, and the fact that Castiel has been sleeping with his heavy work pants on over his johns. 

“Dean,” he stammers, “It’s nothing.I merely overslept.” 

Dean takes off one of his gloves and the chill is biting before he even touches it to a wooden post to confirm his suspicion.Dean hadn’t been paying attention to the cold other than to bundle up, but the dropping night temperatures had clearly been taking a toll on Cas.He’d thought the animals would keep the space warmer, but apparently being on the outer wall left him chilled, especially without any snow yet to insulate the barn.

“Are you sleeping through the night?”

Castiel’s gaze drops and he shifts uncomfortably before replying, “It comes and goes.”

“Because you can’t get warm enough.”

“...yes.”

Dean nods.“We’ll scoot your mattress in the house after breakfast, then.”

Cas looks positively scandalized.“Don’t be ridiculous,” he says, “That would be highly improprietous, with Emma, and-and _you-_ ”

“Nah, it’s nothing,” Dean waves him off, “I’ll put Emma in the bedroom with me and you can have the main room.Plenty of space.”

“Dean—”

“End of discussion,” Dean declares, “Now come on and help me with the chores. Emma learned a new trick and we gotta get the animals seen to before I can show you.”

Dean milks Betsy while Cas dresses and they see the horses watered and fed before heading back to the house.It’s snug and warm with a merry fire burning in the stove and Dean can feel the difference between the house and barn acutely now that he’s finally taken notice.He feels bad but they’ll get Cas situated in the house today and all’s well that ends well. 

Emma is sitting up in her crib (another recent development), and with Dean’s encouragement Cas picks her up, her weight settling into his arms naturally.Cas isn’t near so awkward with her as he was when he first arrived.Dean figures after a life on the road it probably took a little getting used to being around babies and whatnot.Emma seems happy enough to see him, cooing at him with her big green eyes. 

“Okay, put her down, over by you,” Dean says, sinking into a squat on the other end of the quilt he’d spread out on the floor.Cas obeys, setting Emma down gently on her bottom. 

“Emma,” Dean calls, waving his hands to get his daughter’s attention, “Come see me, sweetheart.Come to pa.”

At first Emma just waves back, giggling at Dean’s antics, but after a minute of Dean making a damned fool of himself she rolls onto all fours, rocking forward a few times before finally shuffling her way across the floor in an uncoordinated but genuine crawl.

Cas gasps, dropping to one knee as Emma makes her way determinedly to Dean’s waiting arms.They wait with bated breath until Emma crosses the gap between them, cheering and clapping when she gets close enough to Dean to scoop her up and give her a whiskery kiss.

“Did she just start this morning?” Cas asks.

“First time I’ve seen it.I turned my back for two minutes to stoke up the fire and when I turned around I damn near stepped on her,” Dean says, grinning as he helps Emma to “stand” on wobbly legs.She squeals her delight, holding her Pa’s fingers in a vice grip as she bounces on her toes.“You surprised your Pa, didn’t you, Half-pint?”

Cas is beaming, and it stirs something warm and giddy behind Dean’s ribcage. 

They spend a few more minutes sprawled out on the old quilt, trying to entice Emma to show off some more with wiggling toys and sing song encouragements, though it seems Her Majesty is through performing for the day.She ends up plopping happily back into Dean’s lap, clapping her hands and babbling cheerfully. 

“You two look just alike,” Cas says, nose wrinkling in a grin as Emma tugs on the leather tie of Dean’s hat.Dean glows a little a the compliment, but he shakes his head ruefully.

“You wouldn’t say that if her mother were with us,” he says, dropping a kiss on Emma’s wispy blonde crown, “It’s like looking at a photograph, some days.”

Castiel shrugs.“I can only judge what’s in front of me,” he says impartially. 

Any further debate is interrupted by the kettle boiling.Cas jumps up from the floor with an easy “I’ve got it,” fishing Emma’s clean milk bottle from the pot and pouring them both coffee.Dean follows with Emma, depositing the squirming eight-month-old in her high chair and joining Cas at the stove to claim his steaming cup and prepare Emma’s bottle. 

“You know what this means, of course,”Cas points out, leaning against the table to give Dean space to work.

“What’s that?”Dean asks, pouring fresh milk carefully into the mouth of his tin funnel. 

“Anything and everything in this house below knee height is now within the grasp of your progeny.Who, needless to say, has a habit of putting everything she touches in her mouth.” 

Dean stops pouring to stare at Cas, who merely sips his coffee with a raised eyebrow.A glance around the room is enough to nearly give Dean a heart attack.There’s the ash bucket beside the stove (not even considering the hot stove itself, good lord), the rickety bookshelf Dean had never gotten around to steadying, full of all nature of sharp chotchkies John had left him, and did he leave his _rifle_ just leaning against the lean-to door last time he used it? 

Dean and Cas both look at Emma, who ogles them back, happily gnawing on a fist full of her dress, then each other. 

“Good thing it’s not baking day,” Dean says, throwing up his hands, “‘cause Emma-proofing this cabin is gonna take til sundown.”

Castiel still seems to be in good spirits, considering Dean’s home is an infant death trap. 

“I’ll start another pot of coffee.”

Despite Dean’s dramatics, it only takes the morning to clean house and construct a simple gate to block Emma from reaching the stove with some small lumber left over from their storm repairs, with plenty of time for the day’s regular chores. With the true arrival of winter, most of the labor Dean has been outsourcing to the ladies in town can now be done at home.Instead of trading his extra cream for butter, they churn their own.Dean’s started baking again on Fridays, thankful for his bachelor years spent handling most of the cooking and housework when it was just he and John running the farm after Mary’s death.He’s not about to start a business, but Dean can manage a hearty white loaf, and a batch of rolls or biscuits to keep them fed for the week. 

The last week of November they’d gotten what final crop they could from the garden and done a whole mess of canning.Pumpkin, green beans, summer squash, onions, and carrots, their bright colors preserved in glass and lined up on a shelf in the root cellar.They’d stewed the apples down to sauce, Emma’s favorite and a hearty addition to any breakfast.A dozen jars await their need in the cellar, ready to be unsealed and warmed up on a cold winter morning.

Castiel is putting his sewing needles to good use.It turns out he has quite the hand for mending, after years of necessary economy when it comes to his scant wardrobe.Dean’s work trousers, near worn through at the knees after the last year of farming, are handily patched, and Cas even manages a passable button hole on Dean’s winter coat that had gone ragged. 

Of course not all chores are made easier with the coming of the heavy snow, as Dean discovers at the breakfast table the following morning.

“Emma. _Sweetheart_.Light-of-my-life,” Dean groans, “Do you not realize what a chore it is to do laundry in the dead of winter?”

“Bah,” Emma declares, pleased as punch despite being covered in most of Dean’s breakfast.He’d turned his back for one minute while his bowl was in reach and next things next the tin dish was on the floor and Miss Emma had a lap full of oatmeal all over her last clean dress. 

“It could have been worse,” Cas points out around a barely concealed grin, still buried in his coffee, “At least the oats weren’t hot.”

“Quiet you,” Dean snipes, “If you managed to rub the sleep out of your eyes and pay two cents worth of attention I’d still have my breakfast.”

Cas offers him a grumpy pout.Coupled with his bird’s nest hair Dean almost laughs, but then Emma seems to realize the stickiness of her situation and gives a little warning whimper, tears springing up in her eyes. 

“Oh lord.”Dean heads the tantrum off at the pass, tugging Emma's slimy dress over her head and slinging it in Cas's general direction.

“Get that in the laundry bag, will ya?” He asks, depositing Emma in her crib with a blanket to preserve her decency, “I think I've got a spare in the trunk somewhere.”

Dean digs through the cedar trunk at the end of his bed, careful not to disturb the carefully stored layers of clothes that date all the way back to his parent’s journey from the East coast.What he’slooking for is near the top anyways, along with his summer clothes and the odds and ends Lydialeft behind.When Emma was born Ellen had gifted him a few of Jo’s childhood dresses, and he finds a bright red calico that will do until Dean can get the washing done.He’d been saving it for Emma to grow into, but better a loose dress than a sticky one. 

Underneath the folded dress Dean finds a leftover from the early days of his marriage.It's a nice tan flannel shirt, not unlike what Dean is wearing now, just newer.It was Lydia's first successful attempt at a shirt for him, after a few muck-ups that had wound up being cut apart and made into simple dresses for Emma as to not waste the fabric.

In retrospect, having extra clothes put away for the baby had worked out in Dean’s favor, so he won’t complain.Dean takes both articles back into the main room with him.

“Here,” Dean grunts, tossing the shirt to Cas as he shakes out the red calico shift for Emma, “Thought you could use this.”

Cas squints at Dean, then at the shirt in his lap.Honestly, the man is useless before the sun comes up. 

“Lydia made it, you know, before _,_ and I don't need it but I know that coat of yours isn't worth a damn so—”

“Your wife made this for you,” Cas repeats, head tilted. 

“That's what I said.”Emma is still grumpy, wiggling out of Dean’s grip like a greased piglet as he attempts to coax her into the fresh dress.

Cas smoothes the shirt out from the lump Dean had thrown it in.He fingers the sturdy seams, and the tortoiseshell buttons that Lydia had chosen from his mother’s sewing box. 

“I can't take this.”

“Why not?” Dean asks, “It’s not like you’re gonna sew a new one for yourself.”

“Your wife made it,” Cas repeats, as if Dean hadn’t said it himself the first time, “Dean, _you_ should wear this.I'll—”

“Just take the shirt, Cas,” Dean practically barks, “I don't need my only hand laid up with pneumonia.”

Cas still stares like Dean is speaking Portuguese and not plain English, but eventually he pulls off his ragged gray shirt and tugs the new one on over his johns. 

It’s a pretty good fit.Dean’s a little bigger in the shoulders, but if the seams fall a little too long on Cas no one will be much the wiser.Lydia wasn’t exactly a London tailor. 

“Looks good,” Dean grunts, “Should keep you from dyin’ on me, anyway.”

Cas pulls on his suspenders.The elastic pulls the flannel more snugly against his chest, and Dean looks away.“Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it,” Dean mutters, grabbing the kettle and heading for the water pump.

 

* * *

The snow continues to fly in random fits and starts, and when Dean finds the time, he rigs up a curtain-partition around Cas's bed in the living area, bolting the tracks into the ceiling of the little house and not hesitating to make it a permanent kind of fixture. Cas looks on, watching the process with a creeping discomfort, but unwilling to stop it. 

“There,” Dean says when he finishes, hopping off the ladder, “That’ll help keep you warm. Not too mention provide a little privacy, especially when Sam forgets that this isn’t his house anymore and barges in like the Canadian Moose he is.”

“I don’t want to be an imposition–” Cas starts, stopping himself when Dean’s face falls only slightly. “I’m sorry. That sounded ungrateful. Thank you, Dean.”

Dean shakes his head. “No need. You’ve been a good help. No reason reason why you shouldn’t have a place here.”

Cas smiles, heart skipping a beat when Dean returns it. 

December races on and when the Kansas cold sets in indefinitely, Cas is thankful to be settled, sure enough, knowing that there won’t be another warm day until spring. The little house on the Winchester claim is warm and cozy and he swells with pride whenever he remembers that he helped make it that way. 

On one clear-skied day, Dean ventures out early to town to do more last minute stocking up and to stop by the seed shop to hear the news. He had offered to bundle Emma up and go together, but Cas had waved him off. 

He bursts through the door just as the sun is setting, while Cas heats up Emma’s supper bottle. Dean unwraps his scarf to reveal a mischievous smile, adjusting a paper bag in his grip. 

“What is it?” Cas asks, his own face breaking out into a nervous smile. 

“Well, turns out my calendar keeping got a little off track. We’ve only got three days until Christmas.”

Cas's face falls, and he wishes he could pick it back up again when Dean’s childish glee turns to confusion. 

“What’s the issue? You telling me–” Dean cocks his head to the side, grinning like an imp, “You telling me the Pope’s own don’t celebrate Christmas?”

Cas can’t help but laugh at that. “Of course we do. _Myself_ –well, I haven’t done Christmas justice in years.”

“Well,” Cas looks up to see that Dean had his boots off, his package sitting on the table as he makes his way over to Emma. He picks her up out of the crib, giving her a noisy kiss on the cheek, “Emma and I here will have to rectify that situation. Right, Em?” He playfully makes Emma look at Cas. 

Cas throws up his hands, laughing in earnest. “How could I say no to that?”

The days following are a flurry of activity and preparations, with Dean sharing plenty of anecdotes about how Christmas goes on the prairie. 

“...Church in town does a Christmas tree, I’ll take Emma once she’s big enough to understand it all. One year my Pa gave Sam and I a dollar each, rolled up inside a tin penny whistle. We had been so enamored by the whistles that Ma had to drop some pretty heavy hints and we still didn’t get it. I remember Jo, all done up in her two braids and Sunday dress, screeching–‘Just look inside them, ya nitwits!’” Dean laughs at the memory while they strung popcorn one night, for decorating the mantlepiece. 

“Is that Jo Harvelle? From the tavern?” Cas asks as he pops another piece of popcorn into his mouth before stringing another, remembering the kind but rough-around-the-edges mother-daughter duo that had given him his first start in Ava. 

“The very same spitfire. Our families used to share a house in town during the winter, when this house was just a claim-shanty without any type of weather-proofing. Right up until Ellen’s husband died and they gave up their claim to run the tavern in town, in fact,” Dean says, knotting up the end of his strand. 

Cas feels a stirring of pity. “How did he die?” 

Dean shifts uncomfortably. “Scarlet fever.”

“I apologize,” Cas stutters, “I didn’t want to upset you by asking.”

“No, it’s–it’s nothing. It’s just that my mother died of the same thing that year,” Dean says, and Cas can see him trying to remain casual.

“I’m sorry. It’s must have been hard, to lose your mother so young.”

Dean shrugs. “I was fifteen. There was still fields to till and Sam to feed, so we got on. Still miss her every day though.”

“Did she like this life? Your mother?”

Dean smiles. “I don’t know how much anyone can love it, being so hard on the bones. But she was dedicated. Said we had to take what we given in life and dress it up as best as we can.”

“Sounds like a strong woman.”

“She was…” Dean trails off. Cas watches the soft light of kerosene lamp as if dances off his skin, making him glow golden. He snaps out of it after a few ticks of the clock, gesturing to the popcorn string. “You done on that end?”

Cas smiles, tying the end in the same way he had seen Dean doing. “Yes.”

They make a few more strands that night, eating more popcorn than what makes it up for decoration, but Dean assures Cas that it is all a part of the process. Time passes quickly, and Castiel realizes they don’t have much to prepare for, Emma being too young to understand gifts and Sam not even able to attend due to the unpredictable weather. Still, it feels nice to have something to look forward to, and he finds himself eyeing up the can of oysters Dean had purchased at market after the harvest. 

“Do you have any plans for that tin of oysters?” he asks while Dean kneads the bread dough for Christmas Day, sleeves rolled up to his elbows as his forearms are covered in flour. Cas has watched Dean’s eyes flick nervously to the can several times today, as if they pose a personal threat to his well-being. 

“Well,” Dean says, turning the dough and adding more flour to the table, “Sort of a tradition in the Winchester family to make oyster soup for Christmas day–Ma used to make it, and then Lydia picked up the slack last year…” he trails off, pursing his lips.

“Dean,” Cas starts cautiously, “Do you know how to make oyster soup?”

Dean freezes, releasing the dough to stare at Cas, his face a duel of offense and uneasiness. “Of course I know how to make it.”

“Of course,” Cas smiles, “I was just gonna say that it’s a tradition back east–there being plentiful oysters and all–and if you needed me to make it, I could certainly help you there.”

Dean raises his eyebrows. “That so?”

“I’d be happy to. Only if you need me to, of course.”

The war continues over Dean’s face–either admit defeat or keep up the charade; he chooses the latter. 

“Yeah–I guess you could. It would be a help, since I’ll be busy…” Dean trails off, searching for the words. 

“Emma will need watching, of course.”

Dean’s face perks up again. “Exactly. You’re a big help, Cas,” he continues kneading, “A real big help!”

“My pleasure.”

Cas turns away to start getting his boots on for the evening chores, barely hiding his smirk as Dean transfers the dough into a baking pan, breaking out into a whistle as he works. 

Night comes quicker as the days shorten, and when darkness falls Dean amuses Emma with shadow puppets against the wall, her face a mask of wonder as Dean contorts his hands in all sorts of shapes. 

“See, if you’re a novice–best to stick with the rabbit,” he holds up two fingers to make the shadow resemble tall ears, “What people don’t know is that it’s just as easy to make a bird,” he holds a hand up, palm spread and thumb up, “Or a dog,” he adds another hand to make the dog’s hind legs. 

Cas chuckles, the book resting face down in his lap, long forgotten. “I do believe you’ve missed your calling.”

Dean shrugs it off. “Eh, there’s still time to become a travelling showman. Emma can be my sidekick once she grows some teeth.”

As if in response, Emma flashes them a gummy smile and laughs, clapping her hands as Dean makes the dog run across the wall until he runs out of shadow. After a few more rounds he swoops Emma up, her eyelids heavy and tired.

“I’m gonna go tuck her in. It’s way too late for her really,” Dean says, laying Emma over his shoulder. Cas nods, looking back down to the book open in his lap, trying to see the words in the flickering light as Dean disappears behind the curtain to bring Emma to her crib.

The words swim in front of his eyes, the ink dull against the well-worn page. Reading it always brings him back to nights beside a very different fire, with altogether different company. He remembers a hand on his shoulder, a mouth close to his ear, a locked door...

Dean emerges from the bedroom after a few minutes, breaking up Cas's daydreaming and holding something in his hand that twinkles warmly in the light. He smiles, holding up a clear glass bottle full of a dark amber liquid.

“Merry Christmas, Cas.”

Cas laughs, closing his book once again as Dean pours a generous amount of the whiskey into their tin cups. 

“I know it’s supposed to be the Lord’s time and all that, but we gotta do something to celebrate our good fortune,” he explains, “And it’s the good stuff, not that rot-gut that Ellen mixes up for the tavern.” Dean sits down, handing Cas his cup and holding up his own. “To your good health.”

Cas toasts his own cup back before taking a sip. It’s been years since he’s tasted strong spirits and it catches in the back of his throat. He manages to swallow back a cough, but he catches Dean smirking at him out of the corner of his eye. 

Cas smiles back through the cough, and shifts in his seat. “Can’t say I’ve always been sensitive to spirits,” he says, “Used to be my wife and family, all wrapped up in a bottle.”

Dean doesn’t even flinch, just takes another sip of his own drink. “Nothing to be ashamed of. We all fall on hard times.”

“Yes,” Cas says, relaxing back into his chair, letting the whiskey warm in his stomach, “I suppose we do.”

They drink in silence for a few minutes, wind kicking up outside and the fire crackling in the stove. After a while they abandon their glasses and start to pass the bottle back and forth, their sips becoming swallows. Cas thinks of the fresh baked bread to go with their oyster stew, and the surprise he had planned for Dean tomorrow. 

“Whatcha reading?” Dean asks after a while, gesturing to the book still in Cas's lap. 

Cas had nearly forgotten about it in the comfort of the moment, laying face-down over his knee. He holds it up for Dean to see. 

“Confessions. By Saint Augustine,” Cas explains.

Dean nods. “Never heard of it. Any good?”

Cas laughs softly. “It’s not a book I would pass any judgement on. It just… is.”

“It a Catholic thing?”

“Yes. But you’d be hard pressed to find an average Catholic who has read it. I only know it from my studies at University.”

Dean raises his eyebrows. “You went to college?”

“I did. For a while. I didn’t go long enough to receive a diploma.” 

Dean whistles low. “Still. Sammy’s the only one around these parts that’s ever been to school. And that was the Normal School in Kansas City. Not the university.”

“Truthfully,” Cas says, “I’m more grateful for the life experiences I’ve had outside of school. My parents worked hard for me to be able to attend college, and I am grateful for it, but a man can learn just as much learning a trade or… running a farm.”

Dean smiles, “I appreciate that, Cas. But this life… it’s hard. I chose it, and I’ve made my peace with it. But I wonder if it’s what I’d want for Emma.”

“You have a while before you have to worry about that.”

“True, but these things are so set in stone around these parts. Before I know it some heavy-browed young lad will be calling at the door to take Emma for a buggy ride. Then he’ll be proposing and building a house on a claim–and she’ll be a–” He drops off, a frown forming on his face. 

“A farmer’s wife?” Cas finishes for him. 

Dean drops his head in his hand, leaning his elbow against his knee. “I don’t want you to think I look down on myself. But this is a hard life, and it ain’t for everyone. If I could give Emma a chance to try something different… I reckon I would.”

Cas swallows, eyes glued to Dean’s dimly lit profile. “You’re a good father, Dean, to think of what’s good for her like that. Most fathers would think wife and mother is the only path.”

Dean sits up, wiping a hand over his face. “I used to think that. Used to think that there weren’t options–that everyone wanted the same thing. Like you said, life experience is the best teacher.”

Cas doesn’t know what to say to that, so he takes another sip of the whiskey. His chest tightens at the sight of Dean’s tense browline and his whiskey-heavy fingers twitch at the thought of smoothing it. He coughs, banishing the thought. 

The cough turns genuine, and Dean reaches across and thumps his back. “Easy there.”

“Apologies,” Cas wheezes, throat burning, “It might be time for bed. For me at least.”

“Probably smart. Sam always says that I’m a weepy drunk.”

They stand, and Cas stumbles, head spinning from the drink and heat of the fire. Dean catches him, hand tight on his upper arm. 

“I suppose my tolerance is less than what it used to be,” Cas stutters. 

Dean slings an arm around Cas's shoulder. “Not a crime to let our hair down, Cas, as long as it’s just once in a while.”

Once they are upright Cas realizes that Dean might even be less stable than he. He walks Dean to the bedroom, cognizant of the sleeping baby beyond the curtain. Dean can’t seem to stop laughingat every little noise they make on the perilous journey, wheezing it out as if he were trying to keep quiet. 

“Here we go,” Cas whispers as he deposits Dean on the bed, watching as he flops back immediately, covering his face with his arm. 

“Thanks, Cas.”

“My pleasure,” Cas mumbles as another wave of drunkenness passes over him. He grabs hold of the doorframe, praying the world stops spinning. The bedroom is cold, contrasting sharply with the warmth he feels from the drink.

Dean is mumbling when Cas comes back to himself. 

“Glad you’re here… yeah. Feels like a home again… Don’t leave…”

Cas feels as if a blow had landed in his gut, and he turns around, stumbling through the doorway and toward his own bed across the living space. Dean doesn’t call after him; he must have already dozed off. He collapses, fully clothed, on top of the quilt, barely able to yank the privacy curtain closed before falling back against the pillow.

 

* * *

_“Castiel! A man is here to see you! He’s says he’s a friend from school and that it’s urgent. Please come down!”_

_Cas stands by the window, arms clasped behind his back as he stares out the window. He had seen Ezekiel pass by a few moments ago, eyes looking worried up at the sky as he stepped out of his carriage, as if it might rain. Cas swallows, noting that his handsomeness is enhanced by the sharp lines of his Union uniform. The whole city buzzes with the coming war._

_“Cas! Really now! What’s gotten into you?”_

_Anna’s voice has an air of panic to it, as if she knew that somehow this had been the man to break his heart with nothing more than a newspaper announcement that jerked him back to reality. Cas pictures him, standing straight with his hat under his arm and face as blank as possible, operating under the pretense that he is only here to bid an old friend farewell._

_A ball of heat traps itself in his throat, and he clenches his hands tighter, his fingernails digging into his palms. They need a trim. As does his hair. He swallows, hard, turning on his heel and marching through his door and down the stairs._

_At first he only sees Anna, deep auburn hair offset by the worn golden color of her dress. How had he not noticed that she now had the figure of a woman? She smiles at him, and is briefly a girl again._

_As he descends, Zeke comes into plain view. He reaches the bottom of the steps, no longer forced into movement and required to look him square in the eye._

_Anna opens her mouth, then closes it, sensing the tension within the room. “Shall I have something made up and sent to the sitting room?” she asks by way of introduction._

_The thought of sitting alone with Zeke is too much to comprehend for Castiel, but thankfully the matter is settled quickly._

_“I only have a few moments,” Zeke says, “I have to report to the train station soon.”_

_“Ah, yes,” Anna says, flashing her smile again, “Well, I will give you two a moment.”  
_

_She disappears with a swish of her skirts, and, bless her, Cas knows with an honor code as strict as hers that she won’t even eavesdrop. He almost would prefer it._

_“You look fit,” Cas says, finding his voice “Where are they sending you?”_

_Zeke scratches his head, momentarily break his straight posture. “We’re to be sent to North Carolina, as soon as a victory is achieved.”_

_Cas nods, his tongue in knots. “News is scarce, these days. I suppose you will be encamped a long time before crossing the new border.”_

_Zeke scoffs, a roguish smile lighting up his features. “You know this will be little more than a skirmish.”_

_“I wouldn’t be so sure.” Cas remains serious, again clasping his hands behind his back._

_Zeke’s smile disappears. Cas regrets his pessimism._

_He steps forward, again breaking ranks. “Cas–”_

_“How’s Hannah?” Cas interrupts, swallowing back again against the hotness in his throat. “I imagine she is sad to see you leave so soon after the announcement.”_

_Zeke shakes his head, looking down at the floor. He closes his eyes, and Cas feels the momentary urge to run up the stairs._

_“You could still join up,” he starts, “They would likely send you along after me–we could–” He stops._

_“We could what, Ezekiel?” Cas pronounces his whole name as if it’s a curse word. “If you can’t say it aloud, it likely isn’t going to happen. I value my education and my place in school. My parents have worked hard for me to have it, and I’m not killing myself at a young age as repayment to them.”_

_Zeke flinches at that, but Cas enjoys the sight this time. “I think you should go.”_

_Zeke nods, placing his hat back atop his head. He backs out of the house and is out into the rain before Cas can say another word._

Cas kneads the dough harder and looks out the window. The sky is still dark outside, and Dean and Emma fast asleep. Flour covers his arms up to his elbows, busy making the surprise for Dean and Emma. 

Whether in sleep or wakefulness, his memories cease to leave him alone. It had been almost Christmas, when Zeke had left–a rain-washed Maine Christmas. 

He kneads harder. 

Once the dough is at the proper consistency, he plops it into a wooden bowl, laying a towel over it to preserve the humidity. 

“What’s that?”

He almosts jumps, startled by the fact that Dean in his loudness had still managed to startled him. 

Dean laughs, “I apologize, my friend. What’d you got going under that cover?”

“It’s a surprise,” Cas says, raising his eyebrows. He’s counting on Dean to play along with this, it’s his house, he doesnt have to play by Cas's rules after all. 

Dean looks skeptical. “Alright,” he says finally, “I’ll play along. If not for me then for Emma.”

Cas smiles. 

Dean turns back to his bedroom, evidently only halfway done getting ready for the day if his falling suspenders are anything to go by. He calls over his shoulder. 

“Oh, and by the way, Merry Christmas!”

Dearn emerges again after a few minutes and they settle into companionable conversation. Dean makes coffee and puts Emma’s bottle on to boil while Cas gets the ingredients to make the oyster stew. The can pops when he opens it, the salty scent of the sea permeating the heated house. The sound of waves crashing against the rough rocks of a far away shore echoes in his mind. 

Emma starts fussing a few minutes later while the stew simmers on the stove, and while Dean goes to dress her Cas sneaks a peek at his dough underneath the damp towel. Rising nicely; it will be ready after dinner. 

They have a quick breakfast before Dean goes out to do the chores, hand strong on the rope strung from between the house and the barn as the snow continues to swirl outside in an almost solid white sheet. He reminds himself that Dean does this every year, keeps himself safe in the face of unforgiving winters. Cas looks at Emma in her crib, the sight of her valiantly struggling to stand up using the slats of her crib easing the tightness in his abdomen somewhat. 

Despite his nerves, Dean returns within the hour, looking no worse for wear save for a dusting of snow in his hair. 

Dean rolls out an aged chess board to pass the time, and Cas is pleasantly surprised by his strategies. He hasn’t played chess himself since his college years, and welcomes the challenge. Emma mostly keeps herself to the quilt Dean has spread out on the floor next to him, gumming at a small doll made out of calico scraps that Jess had made her during threshing time. 

Before long it’s time for the stew, which is excellent by Cas's standards, even though he only had access to canned oysters as opposed to fresh. Dean is thoroughly impressed,sopping up what remains in his bowl with one of his own hearty loaves of white bread. 

“Just like my mother used to make. What do you think, Half-pint?” he asks Emma as she picks at her own bowl of cooled broth and mashed potatoes. 

She coos happily, and Cas smiles, wiping his own mouth before getting up to go to the stove again. He places a large skillet with a good amount of lard over the heat. 

“What do you have going now?” Dean asks, leaning back in a lazy way that was only suitable for Christmas to peer at what Cas was doing. 

“You’ll see.”

His Grandmother had made the pa̜czki for Christmas when he had been a child, a job passed on to his mother after she had passed. It wasn’t exactly tradition, the rich doughnuts usually eaten the day before Lent in Poland, but it had become a family custom to have them on Christmas as well. After watching them dutifully for years, the recipe had simply flowed from his mind to his hands, and the dough is perfect and ready when he finally lifts up the cloth. 

Dean watches curiously as Cas forms the dough into small rounds, dropping them into the fat with a sizzle. After a few minutes the yeasty smell of fried dough fills the room. Dean sidles up beside him when he pull the first batch from the skillet, immediately covering them in a modest dusting of their precious white sugar. 

Dean reaches for one; Cas chuckles under his breath. 

“You will burn your mouth for sure.”

Dean moans in a way that makes Cas's stomach clench with unspoken sin when he takes his first bite of the hot pa̜czki, licking the sugar that falls from it from his fingers. 

“Worth it. Sometimes a little pain is worth it, Cas.”

Cas bites his tongue inside of his mouth, his response stuck in his throat with the rest of his common decency. Instead, he breaks open one of the doughnuts, letting out a flood of steam. 

“For Emma. I’m sure she can have a taste, as long as it’s cool.”

Dean’s face relaxes at that, leaning against the counter and watching as Cas fries another batch of the rich doughnuts. He gets them into his mouth as soon as they have a second to cool, praising the treat as if it were the finest French dessert. 

“Usually they are glazed,” Cas explains, “But I couldn’t remember how to do that, or even if we have the right ingredients for it.”

“I can’t imagine them being much better than this.”

His neck burns. “I’m glad you enjoyed them.”

“Enjoyed? I haven’t had a Christmas treat like that–well since my Ma was around I’d bet.” Dean says, his tone losing it’s joking manner and settling into sincerity. “You didn’t have to do all of this, Cas.”

“I didn’t,” Cas says, moving the skillet off of the heat and away from where any curious hands could grab for it, “But I wanted to.”

Dean shrugs, crossing his arms over his chest. When Cas meets his eye, it looks as though he is about to say something, his face twisted with indecision. After a moment, he settles back. 

“Let’s see what Emma has to say about these–What did you say they were called again?”

Cas laughs, glad for the release of the tension even though it leaves him slightly confused. “Pa̜czki.”

Dean says it a few times, struggling with the foreign vowel sound. “I’ll get it. Don’t worry,” he says with a smile, turning away to get Emma’s treat. 

Cas smiles, his heart beating hard in his chest as they settle down for a comfortable Christmas night. 

* * *

 

 

Mary Winchester always said that once you got Christmas under your belt that winter seemed like an unfair price to pay for one day of idleness and indulgence. Dean doesn’t prescribe to all of his mother’s old sayings, but winter in Kansas definitely has the tendency to drag. 

After ringing in the New Year with another glass of his father’s good whiskey (with all honesty 1871 doesn’t feel too different from 1870), they settle into a routine of sorts. Dean does the morning chores while Cas gets Emma’s bottle and breakfast going, and by the time he’s back in the house Emma is ready to be dressed and fed. And then with Cas doing the afternoon chores Dean is free do whatever household work that needs to be done and tend to Emma. 

Cas blows into the lean-to along with a healthy bit of snow one evening, icicles frosting over his dark eyebrows and the thick knit of Dean’s old scarf. 

“Storm’s starting up again,” Cas says once he removes it from over his mouth. He looks at Emma crawling around in front of the mantel, eyebrows shooting up. “I swear she was shorter when I left to milk the cow.”

Dean barks out a laugh, Cas's dry humor always catching him off-guard. “Sometimes I turn around and swear she grew another thatch of hair on her head.”

Once Cas has his coat off he settles in the chair next to Dean. “Don’t be surprised if those baby curls don’t stay put. No telling what kind of hair she’ll truly have. 

Dean nods. “If Lydia has her wish Emma will be a copper beauty by the time she’s sixteen,” Dean says, palm resting comfortingly on his daughter’s back as she crawls, “But I’m betting on the Winchester ash blonde.”

Cas makes a generic noise of assent, brow dipping. They settle into an unsettled silence, and Dean taps his finger on his knee along to the ticking of the clock.

“There are times,” Cas observes after a few moments, head tilted thoughtfully, “That you talk about your wife as if she were in the next room.”

Dean swallows, clenching his jaw as he traces the halo of curls around Emma’s noggin.“Force of habit,” he bites out.Castiel seems to accept this, nodding. 

“Have you ever considered remarrying?” 

It’s an innocent enough question, but it puts Dean’s teeth on edge.He laughs, knowing it comes out bitter.

“Did Sam put you up to this?” he asks, leaving Emma to her nap. 

“What would Sam need to put me up to?” Castiel asks, “It would be perfectly natural for you to move on, if not from an emotional standpoint, then at least from a practical one.”

“You’re serious,” Dean replies.

At Cas's genuine look of confusion Dean shakes his head with a rueful grin. 

“Of all people, I thought _you_ would be on my side here,” he says, keeping his voice low so as not to disturb his daughter.

“What are you talking about?”

“Divorce?”Dean points out, “Last time I checked your people have some strong feelings about that particular subject.”

“Why would you need a divorce?” Castiel asks. 

“Because plural marriage is only legal in Utah territory.”

There’s a few seconds of plain ignorance between them, until Dean finally puts together Cas's confusion with his sympathetic behavior since they’ve met and the penny drops. 

“You thinks Lydia’s dead,” he gathers.Castiel’s expression turns from puzzlement to straight alarm. 

“Your wife is alive?” he asks, brow furrowed.Dean shrugs.

“As far as I know.”

“Where is she?”Castiel is glancing around nervously, like Lydia might jump out from under the bed and shout _Surprise!_

Dean barks out a laugh.“I haven’t got her locked up in the root cellar, Cas.Relax.”

There’s an awkward pause between them. 

“I’m...not sure where to start,” Cas admits.Dean drags a hand through his hair, blowing out a long breath.He figured this day would come, but he’d really hoped Cas had already heard it all from the gossips in town.Damn Novak and his virtuous habit of minding his own business.

“Just a second.”Dean takes the few steps to the bookshelf, tugging the lid off the rusted coffee can that holds his cash savings, and the note his wife left him before disappearing.

The letter is well creased, the seams growing thin from all the times Dean’s punished himself with Lydia’s brief words. 

“She was only here about a year, all told,” Dean says, turning back, “We, uh, got married in June, then Emma was on the way, and then, well…”He offers the letter to Cas, the reality too much for him to speak aloud, even all these months later.

Cas reads the note, and Dean gives a bitter huff of laughter as he flips the paper over, looking for more writing.Finding nothing, Castiel reads Lydia’s short farewell again. 

“She left,” Dean confirms, somewhat unnecessarily. 

“But...why?”

Dean shrugs.“I guess the farming life wasn’t what she thought it would be.Maybe it was something I did, I don’t know.I haven’t seen her since to ask her.”

“Where did she go?”

“I have no idea.”

Cas stands and paces the length of the room several times, letter still held delicately between his fingers.

“How old was Emma?” Castiel asks at last, looking vaguely nauseous.

“Eight weeks.”Even having to say it out loud Dean feels the familiar tremors of rage in his extremities.Cas's expression, if possible, becomes even more grave.

“She could have died,” he breathes, wide eyed. 

“Yeah, well,” Dean replies, swallowing a lump in his throat, “She didn’t.”

Castiel crosses himself, then pinches the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. 

“I need to step outside,” he mutters at last, thrusting the letter back into Dean’s hands. 

Dean nearly calls out after him but catches himself, mindful of Emma still asleep in her crib.He follows Cas out to the lean-to instead, grateful for his thick knitted socks as he steps from the warmth of the main room into the thinly walled space. 

“Cas.” The man leans against the outer door, forehead pressed to the smooth wood.Dean can see the fist clenched at his side. 

“I wasn’t trying to be...dishonest with you,” Dean says, words lame, “In case, you know, you thought I didn’t trust-”

“My ire is not directed at you,” Cas cuts him off, “I don’t blame you for avoiding the topic.I would likely have done the same.”

Dean steps closer, cautious.“Then what-”

“How could she do it?” Castiel rasps, turning to stare with more bare emotion on his face than Dean has ever seen him display, “How could she walk away from her child?From _you_? You-you’re-”

Dean stands dumb as a post while Cas struggles with his words. 

“You’re a _good_ man, Dean.”

Faced with Cas's fresh anger Lydia’s betrayal seems stale and far away.Dean sighs, tired of poking the old bruise.“Not good enough, I guess.”

Cas's hesitates, awkward, before he settles his hand on Dean’s shoulder. 

“Don’t put other people’s choices on yourself,” he urges, “You’re a hard worker, and a loving father to Emma.” 

Cas squeezes, forcing Dean to meet his gaze. 

“Anyone,” Cas says, before pausing with a flush, “Any _woman_ would be lucky to have you as their partner.Please believe that.” 

Dean swallows, mouth dry.“Uh, thanks,” he manages, eyes dropping to the floor, “Thanks, Cas.Means a lot.”

“You know me.I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t believe it.”Cas finally releases Dean, stepping back to pull off his coat.Emma gurgles in the main room and Cas nudges past Dean to tend to her.Dean lets him pass, still flabbergasted. 

_You know me._

“Yeah,” Dean murmurs to himself, “I reckon I do.”

* * *

 

 

They keep to small talk for the next few days, the topic of Lydia vanishing into thin air as quickly as it had been brought up.A few days turns into a week, then two, Dean accepting that Cas isn’t going to change his mind and pass some kind of judgement on him for being unable to control his wife.They spend their days baking and cooking, laundering clothes and bathing with carefully averted eyes.Coming and going from the barn only grows more difficult, but it must be done, and they share the weight of those chores as well. 

As January wanes the house seems to grow smaller and smaller, Dean feeling as though he and Cas are constantly on top of each other, and just not sure what to do with that proximity.It’s fortunate Emma is always happy to provide entertainment.Dean spends most evenings laid out on a quilt while Emma crawls around him, listening attentively to her babbling “stories” and watching her play with her modest selection of toys while Cas looks on fondly.Emma’s favorite is the rag doll Jess made for her.Lately she refuses to sleep without the soft moppet in her crib. 

Dean’s winter doldrums are unpleasantly interrupted when he wakes up on a Tuesday feeling, to put it mildly, like shit warmed over.A headache throbs behind his temple, and he’s certain the Lord must have taken his joints and swapped them with those of an eighty-year-old man.Either that or Dean spent the whole night carrying sacks of brick in his sleep.A tickle catches in his throat and Dean coughs, trying to smother the sound in his comforter lest he wake Emma before her time. 

Decidedly unrested, Dean nonetheless drags himself out of bed and into his clothes for the day.There’s no time for lollygagging when the fire needs lighting and the horses watering.No doubt a cup of coffee will perk him up once the early morning work is done.

Fate however, seems fit to be unkind today.When Dean steps outside the wind is cruel, stinging at what little skin he has left exposed like a thousand needles. Chores, usually comforting in their monotony, leave Dean out of breath, pausing in between filling the horses feed grates to struggle through a coughing fit that leaves his throat raw and his stomach muscles hurting.Beneath his coat and scarf he’s drenched in a clammy sweat that even stepping back out into the bracing chill can’t alleviate.Dean stumbles back to the house, determined not to succumb to a silly cold. 

Compared to the freeze outside the house feels close and stifling, even though Cas is just stoking up the fire.Dean manages to deposit the day’s milk and eggs safely before ripping off his scarf, feeling choked.

“Is everything alright?” Cas asks, bringing Emma’s crib out from the bedroom now that the fire is warming the room. 

“Yeah,” Dean grunts, shedding his wool coat with relief, “Just got tangled up.The wind’s roaring out there.”

“I could hear it going all night,” Castiel agrees, depositing a sleepy Emma in her highchair, “Among other things.”

Dean is distracted from deciphering Cas's passive aggressive remark by another coughing fit, which he hides in the crook of his elbow.“Something in my throat,” he explains, trying to shake out the cobwebs, “Chaff from the barn, likely.”

“Right.”

The oatmeal Dean set on the stove is starting to boil, so he grabs the ladle from its place on the wall to give it a stir only to find Cas standing in his path. 

Dean sways back a little, not accustomed to Castiel being so far into his personal space.Not to mention, he might be a little woozy.Cas steadies him with a firm grip on his shoulder, which Dean hardly has time to startle at before Castiel is rolling up his other sleeve and pressing his bare wrist to Dean’s forehead. 

“You’re burning up,” he declares, going to take the ladle from Dean’s hand. 

“I ain’t nothing,” Dean argues, pulling the utensil out of Cas's reach, “I got overheated standing by the stove is all.”

“Right,” Cas hums again, clearly skeptical, “And did the stove also put a cough in your chest and steal your appetite?Because you hardly touched supper last night and you’ve been barking like a seal all morning.”

“Cas-tee-el,” Dean drawls, dropping the ladle into the pot of oatmeal, “I am _fine._ Fit as a fiddle.Healthy as a-”

Dean’s vision spots for a second, and Cas has to grab the front of Dean’s shirt to stop him from tipping backwards into the hot stove. 

“What you _are_ is sick,” Cas says once Dean is steady and out of range of the cook top, “It’s probably the flu.”

Dean should have known better than to try and pull the wool over Cas's eyes.He still grumbles, but with his joints aching he admits, “Maybe I could use a bit of a lie down.Just till noon, you hear.I won’t be laid up by some bug while there’s work to be done.”

“I’m sure you’ll find your recovery much swifter when you don’t insist on exerting yourself,” Cas replies. 

The minute Dean steps away from the heat of the stove he feels an ungodly chill, though there’s sweat clinging to his brow.“Perhaps I am a mite feverish,” he mumbles. 

“At least you chose a good time of year for it,” Cas says, walking him to his bedroom, “We have a god given supply of snow and ice.”

Dean chuckles, dropping onto the bed with more force than he’d intended.Somehow between last night and this morning his legs had gone as shaky as a newborn foal.

“That’s me,” he replies, allowing Cas to help him tug off his flannel shirt, “Always the pragmatist.”

Despite already feeling warm Cas insists on layering Dean in extra blankets.Unfortunately the most surefire way to deal with a fever is to sweat it out.

“Sleep,” Castiel orders, “I’ll bring you some water and take care of the chores today.”

“I’m fine,” Dean still tries to insist, even though the act of turning his head makes the room spin.

“If I allow you to persist in your stubbornness, you could pass your illness on to Emma,” Cas continues, “A nuisance to you could prove life threatening to an infant, and if anything ever happened to her you would never forgive yourself.”

That sobers Dean right up.

“The fact that you didn’t consider that tells me how sick you really are,” Cas points out.

Dean fights back a wave of nausea that has nothing to do with his headache.

“So,” Castiel concludes, “You may act as ornery as you please, Dean Winchester, but you will be remaining in bed until the fever breaks.”

“Yes, _sir_ ,” Dean grumbles as Cas leaves the room to finish Emma’s breakfast.

Despite his resistance, Dean feels the weight of exhaustion pulling him into the ether.The fact that the simple act of milking the cow had been enough to lay him out like this is worrisome, but Dean is back to sleep before he has too much time to dwell on it.

Dean’s head throbs and his mouth feels cottony when he awakens to the warmth of the late afternoon sun streaming through his small window.A tin cup is raised to his lips, and Dean sips cold water gratefully.His body is one big ache, with hardly a spot of relief, except—

There are fingers in his hair.A thumb strokes against his brow, and Dean sighs.It feels so good.When was the last time he was touched like this?Who—

“Ma?”

There’s a sharp intake of breath, but Dean is already shaking his head.No.Ma passed on.Years ago.But who else would be at his bedside?Who else would pull their fingers through his hair, and press a cool cloth to his eyes with such tenderness?

There was a time (god, it two years ago now) when someone else would have cared for him.They were sweethearts then, before she near faded away to nothing.Still newlyweds.She would have sat vigil at his bedside, held his hand and pressed tender kisses to his brow.Those days are over now, but it’s _possible_. He’s waited so steadfastly.Maybe—

“Lydia?” 

“...No Dean.Lydia isn’t here.” 

The low, masculine rumble pulls Dean out of the past, and back to his feverish present.He blinks his eyes open, squinting in the harsh daylight. 

“Cas.”

Castiel looks on solemnly, a book resting open in his lap.

“Yes.I meant to let you sleep, but you were restless,” Cas explains, hand still petting through Dean’s hair.He pauses before asking, “Do you want me to go?”

_No._ Dean barely keeps the exclamation from passing his lips.He manages to limit himself to an urgent shake of his head. 

“Sorry,” he says instead, “About-um, mistaking you for her.”

“Don’t think on it.I’ll attribute it to your fever,” Cas says, “It certainly isn’t because of the softness of my hands.”

Dean’s brain must be well on its way to addled.His thoughts try to grasp on to the pleasing _un-_ softness of Castiel’s calloused fingers combing through his hair, but as with most brief moments of pleasantness in his life they swing right back to Lydia. 

“What if she never comes back?”

Cas hums, unperturbed.“There will always be people who care for you, Dean Winchester,” he promises, “Even if your wife couldn’t.You attract us like moths to a lantern.”

The strange intimacy of Cas's words slide over him like rain on a glass windowpane.“I did my best,” Dean whispers, eyes dropping somewhere near Cas's knee, “I don’t know how I wronged her.”

“It likely had little to do with you,” Cas replies, “There are times we look ahead and see a whole life waiting to meet us.Some find comfort in that.Others flee.It doesn’t mean there aren’t parts of that life that we regret leaving.”

Dean tries to corral his thoughts, wanting to respond to Cas's philosophical waxing.

“You’ve got wisdom beyond your years, old man,” he settles on, letting his heavy eyelids flutter shut again.

“I have been rambling,” Cas murmurs with a soft chuckle, “But you’re a much more attentive audience than usual this evening.”

There’s a soft cry from the main room.Dean recognizes the telltale sign of Emma about to work herself into a real fit unless someone sees to her.Cas must know the signal as well, because he withdraws his touch and makes to rise from Dean’s bedside.

A wordless objection passes Dean’s lips despite himself. 

“Apologies.” There’s a trace of humor in Cas's voice, though the wailing grows louder.“I’ll only be a moment.The baby is crying.It’s likely her teething again.”

“I should—” Dean rasps, making to rise from the bed, but Cas pushes him back onto his pillow with a firm grip at his shoulders. 

“You need to stay in bed.You’re in no state to stand, let alone hold a child.”Castiel brokers no objection, and Dean can only surrender in his feeble state. 

Emma is crying, and here he is, weak as a kitten.He can’t defend his homestead.He can’t comfort his child.Shameful tears burn behind his fevered lids.

“Shh, it’s alright.” A hand presses into his chest, a comforting weight that feels warm through his johns, even to Dean’s heated skin.“I’m going to take care of it.Rest, Dean.I’ll bring you something to eat after.”

Dean takes a shaky breath, nodding.The weight of Cas's hand vanishes, leaving him cold, but the fever soon has him shivering into a restless sleep.The only comfort Dean knows as he falls under is the steady easing of Emma’s cries in the other room, and the low gravel of Cas's voice as he soothes his daughter.

The next day, Dean only feels worse.The small snippets of it that he’s conscious for, anyway.His sleep is tumultuous and uneasy, filled with the mocking sound of Lydia’s laughter and the wheezing breath of Pa on his deathbed. Dean’s struggles to the surface are short lived and muddled, moments coming to him like he’s watching them on stage from the back of the room.He lets the sensations wash over him like the cold snowmelt water Castiel helps him to sip passes over his parched tongue.

The heaviness of the quilts over his aching joints, the padded blankets pressing him into the straw tick mattress in an effort to sweat the fever out.

The scent of warm cinnamon and apples, and the muffled sound of Emma’s babbling in the next room.

The low, rhythmic murmur of Latin prayers, accompanied by the steady click of beads.Dean doesn’t know the exact meaning of the words, but Castiel’s gravelly repetitions lull him back into rest.For a few short hours, Dean enjoys a dreamless sleep. 

It’s pitch dark when Dean awakens in a panic.His limbs feel sluggish and constricted in his bedding and his eyes burn.His mouth is as dry as a desert.Dean thrashes in his sheets, his panic only increasing when someone grabs his wrists, trying to pin his arms down to the bed.

“Dean.You need to wake up.”It’s Cas.Dean is struggling against Cas and he does his best to relax, though he can’t seem to cease the awful burning, or the shivering chills down his spine.

“Cas—” His voice is hardly a husk of its normal baritone, and Dean coughs, dry and hacking.

“Shh,” Castiel urges him, “Your fever is spiking.We need to get you cooled down, or I’ll have to go for the doctor in the morning.”

With Dean as cooperative as he can be in his muddled state Cas folds back his bedding in order to help Dean sit up and peel off his thick undershirt.Cas makes Dean drink three tin cups worth of water before laying him down again.Dean tries to focus through the headache pounding between his temples, but the first cold cloth Cas lays across his forehead still comes as a shock.

“Wha—” Dean shudders as icy cold water runs from the soaked cloth into his hairline. 

“We’re bringing down your fever,” Cas reminds him, draping another cloth onto his bare chest.It feels incredible, cold and wet against his tight heated skin.Castiel apparently has a ready supply of rags, dipping them into a tin bucket filled with water and melting snow.He slaps them onto Dean’s neck and chest, paying no mind to the water that drips onto the mattress. 

By the time the cloth against his forehead warms, Dean is drifting again.The points of sharp cold and burning hot war under his skin, overwhelming his senses.Cas forces him to drink another cup of water before taking the warmed cloth from his brow and placing a fresh cold one over his eyes.Dean tries to reach out for his friend, but Cas only places his hand back flat on the bed. 

“I’m here,” Cas assures him, stroking the wet hair back from Dean’s forehead, “Try to rest.”

With Cas relieving the worst of Dean’s symptoms, he obeys.

When Dean wakes up the next morning, his sheets are soaked with sweat, and he can think clearly for the first time in nearly three days.Cas is asleep in the chair to his left, fully dressed with one hand still on the bucket half full of snow melt.He’s practically falling out of the hard wooden kitchen chair, chin tucked awkwardly against his chest.Despite the dark circles under his eyes Cas looks younger than Dean has ever seen him, his free hand curled in his lap like a child’s.

“You’re gonna have one hell of a crick in your neck, sleepin’ like that,” Dean says, surprised at the dry rasp of his voice.His tongue feels dry and tacky in his mouth. 

Cas startles awake.“Dean.”He immediately brings a cup of water to Dean’s lips, which Dean is able to take into his own grip as he drinks eagerly. 

“How are you feeling?” Cas asks, pulling his chair closer to Dean’s bedside. 

“Like a wrung out rag,” Dean admits, cataloguing his minor aches and pains, “But lucid, I think.” 

Cas rests his palm flat against Dean’s forehead.“Your fever’s broken,” he declares, relief evident as his shoulders drop, “I think you’re on the mend, Mr. Winchester.”

“So when can I see my girl?” Dean asks, and Cas chuckles. 

“Now I _know_ you’re feeling better.”Castiel ruffles Dean’s hair before rising.“I’ll boil some water,” he offers, “I think you’ll feel even better after a quick wash.”

Dean manages to shift into more of a sitting position against his pillows and grimaces at the feeling of cold sweat sticking to his skin. 

“I reckon that’s not a bad idea,” Dean calls after Cas, already moving around in the kitchen.

Dean throws off his blankets, now stifling in the warm house, and gets himself another cup of water from the bucket cas left at his bedside.He feels dried out and heavy limbed, like he'd spent the night at Ellen's tavern instead of a sickbed.He's already shirtless, but still wearing his winter long johns.Dean tugs off the sweaty woolen leggings with relief. 

He’s ferreting out a clean shirt from the trunk in just his cotton drawers when Cas comes back with the kettle and the small wash basin Dean usually leaves in the lean to.

“Are you sure you should be out of bed?” Castiel asks, pouring the steaming water into the basin. 

“The end of the bed isn't exactly a ten-mile hike,” Dean replies.He tosses his clean shirt onto the bed and accepts a clean washcloth from Cas, soaking it before giving his face a good scrub.

Dean groans as the hot water soothes his eyes and he breathes in the warm steam.A few drops, still nearly scalding, drip down his throat to his collarbones, and after the chills and the sweat of the last few days it feels like heaven.When he blinks his eyes open, pressing the washcloth over the tense muscles in his neck, he catches Cas staring.

“Alright there, buddy?” he asks, dipping the cloth again before wringing it out.Cas emits what could only be called a squeak.

“I’ll just, um—” Cas gestures vaguely and makes himself scarce.Dean catches a flush staining his cheeks before he disappears behind the curtain to the main room. 

“Damned Catholic modesty,” Dean mutters to himself, humming in satisfaction as he drags the hot washcloth over his neck and chest, wiping away the staleness of his sickbed.

He’s given all the essentials a quick scrub and is pulling on a fresh undershirt when Dean hears the unmistakable sound of Emma fussing. 

Dean buttons his trousers as Cas greets Emma with a “Good morning, little miss,” followed by the rustling of fabric that he guesses is Cas lifting Emma from her crib.When Emma’s whimpers turn into a full on wail, Dean sticks his head into the main room, concerned. 

Cas holds a tearstained Emma, still in her nightgown.“Look here,” he coaxes her, “Your papa is up and about.I’m sure he’s as anxious to see you as you are him.”

Emma spots Dean over Cas's shoulder and immediately starts squirming, reaching for Dean with a plaintive cry that breaks Dean’s heart.

“Shhh, shhh honey, I'm here,” Dean coaxes her, stepping into the main room in earnest.He wants to wrap her up in his arms so bad, but, “You don't think I’ll give her anything if I get too close, do you?”

“I think it's safe to say you're out of the woods,” Cas says with a smile, “Just let me know if you start to feel faint.”

Dean washes his hands one more time in the bedroom before reaching out for his daughter.Now that he's in his right mind every second he has to be away from Emma is a torment, and by the struggle Cas is putting up to keep a hold of her the feeling is entirely mutual.

“She was not to be consoled last night,” Cas reveals, releasing Emma to Dean’s eager hands, “I managed to trick her into sleep with some warmed milk eventually, but I’m surprised she didn’t wake you up.”

“Aw.”Dean smooths down Emma's fine curls as he settles her familiar weight in his arms. “Did you miss me, Half-pint?” 

Emma’s reply is a piercing squeal, and she smacks her little hands against Dean’s bristly cheeks a few times before getting a grip on his shirt collar and clinging like a grass bur.Dean finds himself blinking back tears as he buries his nose in her hair. 

“Don't worry, sweetheart,” he murmurs, “Hell and high water couldn't keep me away from you for long.”

“You must be hungry,” Cas says after a minute, shifting awkwardly, “We still have some biscuits I can warm up if you give me a minute or two-”

“Cas.”Dean catches Cas by the sleeve before he can busy himself in the kitchen.

“Thank you.”Dean is still gazing down at his baby girl.For once Emma seems content to stay still, snug against Dean’s chest with one little fist curled into his undershirt.Dean traces the sweet bow of her mouth with the tip of his finger, looking up at Cas with his heart full. 

“I don’t know what would have happened to us if you hadn’t been here.”

Cas shrugs, though his cheeks are a pleased pink.“The Winchesters always find a way,” he demurs, “I'm sure providence would have interceded somehow.”

“Really,” Dean insists, “You took care of my family when I couldn’t.I owe you.”

“You owe me nothing,” Cas replies, gripping Dean’s arm in return, “I'm glad you're well again, and that Emma has her father back.”

Emma chooses that moment to voice her opinion on the matter, offering a firm “Ahbahba” and reaching out for one of Cas's fingers.Castiel yields to Emma’s wish with a good-natured chuckle.

“See?” Dean says, “Both of us Winchesters are very grateful to you, Mr. Novak.”

“It was my pleasure,” Castiel replies, still held captive by Emma's grip, “Now if the young lady sees fit to release me, I think we could all use some breakfast.”

Dean's stomach rumbles loudly and they both laugh. 

“Sounds like a plan, partner.”

 

* * *

Dean still retires early that night, and sleeps late the next morning, but by the day after he feels back in fighting shape.Blessedly, neither Cas nor Emma take ill with whatever germ Dean had the misfortune of catching, so the whole episode is over in the course of a week.

That’s not to say Castiel is through mother henning.

“I think I’d be capable of milking the cow without keeling over,” Dean pouts over lunch that day, Emma fast asleep against his chest, “You haven’t let me lift a finger in two days.” 

“It won’t do you any harm to stay in the house for one more day either,” Castiel replies, pulling on his boots, “And I’d rather do a few extra chores than have you over exert yourself.”

And that, apparently, is the end of that.Dean grumbles, but he deposits Emma in her crib for a nap and cleans up their dishes while Cas laces his boots and pulls on his coat.

“When I’m through perhaps we can do an extra batch of laundry,” Cas suggests, wrapping a thick scarf around his neck, “It would be wise to wash your linens, now that you’ve shaken off the last of that flu.”

“That’s not a bad idea,” Dean agrees, “We can string them up in front of the stove overnight.”

“I’ll bring in the tub from the barn,” Cas promises, before disappearing out the lean-to door with a blast of cold air.Dean digs out the lye soap from the bottom shelf in the kitchen before heading for his bedroom.

It gets dark so damned early this time of year. Dean’s room is already shrouded in shadow even though it isn’t quite suppertime.He lights the kerosene lamp beside his bed and gets to work stripping the cotton sheets from his mattress.It’s only the work of a few seconds.The house is close and silent, with Cas in the barn and Emma deep in slumber in the main room. With no more demanding task at hand, Dean feels useless and fidgety.

He can’t recall such a restless winter in recent memory.Then again this time last year he hadn’t been alone in his double bed, either.Dean had thought maybe with a baby on the way Lydia would lose interest in spending time together as man and wife, but he couldn’t have been more wrong.Those warm winter nights had been enough to sap the tension from any man’s bones. 

Dipping too deep into his memory, Dean has to adjust himself in his work pants.The touch is...stimulating, to say the least.Dean hasn’t exactly been spending the last six months thinking too fondly on his intimate moments with Lydia, not to mention the stress of working the farm and tending Emma on his own before Cas came along.Now with three of them snowed in the house and nowhere to go, there was hardly a private moment to be enjoyed with his own thoughts, let alone his hand.

At this exact moment, however…

Dean drags his thumb over the seam of his trousers, a tantalizing line of pressure against his half-hard cock.He sighs, sinking onto his stripped bed.He continues to touch himself over his clothes, biting his lip to keep quiet as he hardens in his drawers.Maybe this is what he needs, to vent a little of the pressure built up from the long months of close quarters. 

Eventually the pressure against his fly becomes uncomfortable, and Dean undoes the buttons to free himself from his underwear.He takes himself in hand, pulling steadily from root to tip, heat rolling in his gut.It really has been too long. 

Working his fist in a slow, steady rhythm, Dean’s thoughts wander.His first thoughts, of the heat between Lydia’s thighs, fuel the itch under his skin, but they are just as quickly cooled with shame and anger.The memory of his wife’s gentle touches are spoiled by the cruelty of her abandonment. 

Dean perseveres, eyes falling closed, focusing on the increasing rhythm of his hand.On the rough drag of his snug fist, slicked by the drippings from the head of his cock.His calloused grip is...comforting.Dean twists his wrist and exhales through his nose.His palm is warm and wet.He presses just the below the head of his cock with his thumb, and has to bite back a sound. 

Dean thinks of a thumb stroking the sweat slick skin of his fevered brow, and his pace increases.Calloused fingers stroking through his hair.Dean twists his wrist again.His breath comes fast as he imagines that touch going lower, over his chest and into his drawers, a low rasping voice whispering in his ear—

“Dean?” 

Dean chokes as his climax takes him just as Cas returns from the barn, bringing the wash bucket in through the lean to with a clatter.His voice is muffled by the curtain shielding Dean in his bedroom but the gravel of it is still enough to send a bolt of heat through him as he comes.Dean’s chest heaves as spills white over his fist to the sound of Cas's voice and the memory of his touch. 

There’s a creak of the floorboards as Cas approaches the bedroom door, and Dean’s blood runs cold.Thankfully he pauses outside the curtain. 

“Is everything alright?” 

“Ugh, yeah,” Dean calls, back, hurriedly wiping himself clean with his handkerchief, “Just working a lump out of the mattress.Start filling the basin.I’ll be right there.”

He hisses, sensitive, as he tucks himself back into his trousers and straightens his clothes, hoping the flush on his cheeks isn’t so obvious in the close warmth of the house.Dean gathers up the bundle of his bedclothes and nudges the curtain aside, returning to the main room.Cas is stripped out of his coat and shirt, emptying the hot kettle of water into the laundry tub in only his undershirt and suspenders.Dean manages to drag his eyes away from the snug fabric over Cas's biceps just before his appearance is noted. 

Cas holds up the shirt Dean gifted him, with a large muddy hoof print across the front, and explains, “Betsy felt the need to greet me with extra enthusiasm this afternoon.I figured we may as well add it to the load.”

“‘Course,” Dean replies, dumping his sheets into the basin to soak them through, “Toss it in.She didn’t get you too good, did she?”

“Merely a graze,” Cas assures him, staring at Dean keenly, “Are you feeling quite well? You look a little red.”

“I’m fine,” Dean says quickly, “Just a little warm in here with the stove on hot, is all.”

Castiel squints, but in the end takes Dean at his word, and they move on with the laundry before the night grows too long.With the large wooden tub in front of the stove the house seems smaller than ever, and Dean finds himself bumping into Cas more than once.Cas takes it in stride, placing a hand on Dean’s back as he slides past him to grab the soap.Dean, however, despite his release of tension, finds himself more unsettled than ever. 

 

* * *

Cas wakes up disoriented the next morning, limbs flailing and quilt flying off the bed from the trials of an unremembered dream. Not even moonlight filters in through the window and the usual signs of the dawn are missing, including Dean rising up to get the chores going. Dean had insisted on getting back into their routine, but this morning the house is still and quiet. He deposits his quilt back onto the bed, pulling on his clothes and immediately rising to hastily check on Dean and Emma in the eerie quiet. 

Dean had acted strangely when he had come in from the evening chores the night before, and Cas regrets that he hadn’t insisted on feeling his forehead for a relapse in his fever. If Dean’s sickness was back, he would have to send for the doctor, and bring Emma into town, a thought that makes his stomach tighten with nerves.

He looks out the window first, and finds it completely blank. He clears the fog with a section of his sleeve, but still sees no moon, no stars, no hulking dark outlines of the barn and outhouse. The storm from the night before had continued on, and the snow sat above the window line now, blocking the visibility. 

A quick peek into the bedroom shows that Dean isn’t in bed, his quilt strewn about much in the same way as Cas's. Emma sleeps the sleep of the unburdened in her crib, her tiny hands splayed above her head and her doll nestled right beside her. He smiles, ears pricking up at a _shick-shick_ sound coming from outside the house. 

He pulls on his coat and boots, wrapping a scarf around his face. The house is warm and comfortable, deceptively insulated by the wall of snow even as the stove fire dims from lack of tending. He opens the door, preparing for the wall of snow he would have to cut through. 

As soon as the door opens the _shick-shick_ gets louder, joined by a low whistling. Dean’s coat sticks out, brown and rough in the landscape of pure white snow as he cuts a path to the barn. Cas walks through the already broken path, the snow towering over his head like the waves of the red sea. 

Dean has his scarf wrapped around his ears, and Cas endeavors to make a good deal of noise as he approaches, not wanting to startle him. Dean turns around when he’s close, pressing more snow along the length of the makeshift towers he’s making. 

“Morning!” he says, depositing the shovel into the snow and leaning on the handle, “Snow storm must have picked up while we were snoring.”

“I should say so,” Cas mutters, still awestruck at the sheer amount of snow pressing in around them, “I wish you had woken me up. I can help.”

Dean’s face falls. “Well, sure. But you almost looked as peaceful as Emma, and I couldn’t wake you with good conscious.”

The words _I’m your hired hand, and should be there to help you_ die on Cas's tongue before they can fog up the freezing air. “I woke up shocked that the house was as warm as it was.”

“Yep,” Dean says, tossing another pile of fluffy snow on top of their parapet. “Best insulation money can’t buy, John Winchester always said, if you can get the winds to leave the damn snow alone long enough. Had to knock down a path to the barn and the outhouse before it freezes solid, mind.”

Cas nods. The wind swirls into their hole, adding to the rosiness in Dean’s already flushed face. He swallows. 

“How’s Emma?” Dean continues. 

“Sleeping. Seems that the snow against the windows has created an unofficial night.”

“Ah.”

“How can I help?”

Cas ends up breaking a path with his body for Dean, loosening up the snow so that Dean can easily shovel it out and onto the surrounding banks. By the time they make it to the barn, cold sweat gathers at the back of Cas's neck underneath his scarf.

“Looks like you got the raw end of the deal,” Dean says as he pants just as hard as Cas from the exertion when they finally make it to the barn door. “You can go do the chores, I’ll finish the path to the outhouse.”

“You’ve been at this for longer than me,” Cas retaliates. “Unless breaking through tightly packed snow is preferable to sitting on a stool and milking Betsy.”

Dean leans on the handle of his shovel, laughing with a hanging head. “I’m a trifle tired, it’s true.”

Without thinking, Cas pulls off his glove and reaches out to feel Dean’s forehead. Shock registers on Dean’s face with a raise of his eyebrows, but Cas keeps his face neutral. “You don’t have a fever, but you shouldn’t over exert yourself after being so ill.”

“Should’ve been a shopkeeper,” Dean mutters under his breath as Cas's hand falls. “Alright, I’ll cede.”

He thrusts the handle of the shovel at Cas, pulling the scarf from over his mouth for the first time. “Don’t you go catching a chill on me, either.”

Cas smiles, taking the shovel but watching Dean until he makes it inside the barn. 

Cutting a path to the outhouse takes most of the morning, the snow melting slightly in the morning sun and packing down harder with every passing minute. Dean goes back to the house to check on Emma and give her a bottle after doing the chores, but joins him to finish up the job. 

By the time they’re finished, the sun rests high in the sky and their stomachs grumble with wanting breakfast. They thaw out in front of the stove, holding out their coats dripping with melting snow. They prop up the two rocking chairs to serve as a drying rack for their coats and scarves when it becomes clear that prolonged exposure to the heat would be necessary. 

For once, the house is warm and comfortable from the snow insulating it from the constant winds that rolled over the prairie in all seasons. Cas sends up a quick prayer thanking God for the momentary quiet from the constant howling. Emma settles down for a nap easily, lulled back to sleep in Dean’s bedroom after supper from the quiet and comfort. 

Dean and Cas move about each other easily, sopping up the water from their drying outerwear and doing all household chores that had been stopped because of the constant cold chilling them to the bone. Despite the fact that it’s not baking day, Cas insists that they ought to get a few loaves in the oven since the dough will rise better in the temporary warmth of the house. 

They stand side by side, flour up to their elbows as they get multiple batches under wraps to rise. Cas watches the muscles of Dean’s arms flex and move under his skin as he kneads the loaves while Cas continues to mix raw ingredients. Any other man would have passed on the chore, or gone without bread altogether, due to it being women's work. Dean takes to the work with a smile and his own style, truly owning his home in a way Castiel had never seen before. 

“Ma wasn’t the type to banish us from the kitchen, even though she only had two boys,” Dean says, by way of explanation, while the fresh loaves rise in proximity to the stove. They are enjoying some fresh coffee at the table to reward their efforts. “Taught us all the chores that came with running a homestead, saying that in these modern times we were more likely to be bachelors before we were married men.”

“Seems practical enough,” Cas comments.

“She was nothing if not practical,” Dean says, shrugging, “And kind. She was all of that.”

“You miss her,” Cas says, more a statement than a question.

“Of course,” Dean says, “But she’s here. In the all the ways a house can be made into a home.”

They sit in silence for a few moments, sipping at their coffee and enjoying the sound of silence. 

“What about you?” Dean ventures, “You never talk much about your parents.”

Castiel sees a house, small in size but rich in improvements, sitting on a corner between a residential area and the downtown marketplace. It hadn’t been much when he was small, but it had grown to become a fine home to grow up in. 

He bites the inside of his cheek, trying to remember. “They worked. My father was educated, and it took him further than many of the people who came from Poland alongside us. It would have been in his best interest to convert–but alas he got away without it.”

“Convert?”

“To a Protestant faith. All things considered, I’m not sure it would have helped our situation much more. I’m happy he left me with the tradition. It has gotten me through some… times.”

Dean nods. “And your mother?”

Cas's brow furrows from the effort of remembering her face, heavily lined from trial and worry even in her youngest years; a mother too young in a new land that wouldn’t allow her to be only a mother. 

“She taught me the value of hard work. As my father worked his way up through the ranks, she never let us go hungry. She took in washing from the local bachelors, sold eggs, flowers–anything that would bring in quick money. She had pride, and was often ridiculed in our early years in this country,but it didn’t cripple her.”

“Do you remember your old country at all? Poland?” Dean says the name of his homeland, and it sounds foreign, but respected in his mouth. Often it was referred to disdainfully by his father’s friends and colleagues. 

“I don’t,” Cas says, simply, “I was only three when my parents and grandmother made the journey. Sometimes I think I can see it, but then it might just be the pictures my mother would paint with her stories.” He shakes his head. “The Poland they recall doesn’t exist anymore. Maybe it never did.

“I suppose I’m lucky, in a way. I do feel a connection to it,” Cas continues, “My sister was born here, she has no memories, or even the ghost of memories.”

Dean sits forward, interest on his face. “You have a sister?”

Cas nods. “Anna. She was only 16 when I… left.”

Dean watches him, eyes searching his face. 

“She always played the role of the older sibling better than I ever did. She took care of me–I re-payed her poorly.”

Dean sits back. “In my experience, if someone’s your family they don’t expect to be re-payed.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Cas says, chest tightening. “I only wish I had said a better goodbye to her, I don’t even know who she grew into.”

“Never kept in touch?”

Cas shakes his head. “The way I left, it wasn’t ideal. I doubt she wishes to hear from me.”

“Well,” Dean says. “I doubt that. I don’t think there’s anything Sam could do that would make me that mad at him.”

“I left before the war. There was–I was so selfish.”

“Why did you leave?”

Cas turns away, heating up under his collar from Dean’s gaze. His face rests on his hand, elbow propped up on the table.Cas’s chest only tightens, unwanted and hard to ignore. Images flash before his eyes;Zeke in his uniform, the rain beading up on the thick blue wool–Hannah standing on the steps of the church while the bell tolls– 

Cas rises, snapping the tension. His hands search for something, so he wipes up some flour that had spilt onto the floor from their baking.

“Bread looks ready to be baked,” he says, his voice hearty even with his conscious lightening of it. “What would our mothers say, baking bread when the sun is just about to go down–”

“Cas, I’m sorry.”

Cas avoids Dean’s gaze, still seated at the table behind him. 

“There is nothing to apologize about,” he says lightly as he deposits the loaf pans into the oven.

“I shouldn’t be prying, you don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to–”

“You’re right, I don’t.”

Dean doesn’t respond. Cas crosses the room, wanting to get farther away, even if there was no where he could go. Dean stands up behind him, the scraping of his chair across the rough wooden floor apparent in the silence of a rare windless evening. 

“Was there someone?”

Cas scoffs, turning around to face Dean’s completely serious expression. “What do you mean?”

Dean fidgets, his feet uncertain underneath him, as if he were unsure whether to move forward or backward. 

“Come on, there must have been someone, what with you acting like I stepped on a stick of dynamite as soon as you brought up leaving Maine.” Dean says, a repeat of his former question, his eyes much more desperate to know the answer than his joking tone would let on.

Cas swallows, voice cracking on his first word. “No. There was no one.”

“Then why did you leave? Don’t tell me it’s some kind of wandering thing–you just don’t seem the type.”

“There aren’t always sound reasons for these things, Dean. The world isn’t black and white.”

“Cas–”

“What do you want, Dean?” He cuts him off as he grips the wood of the mantel, swearing he could feel every whorl and knot in the wood underneath the smooth finish. 

“I–” Dean starts. He steps closer, if the creaking in the wood is anything go by. “I want to know if you’re going to leave.”

Castiel turns, coming face to face with Dean, his expression desperate, almost needy. 

“I’ll have to go at some point, Dean,” he says, his words coarse but voice softening with each passing word as he gazes into the green of Dean’s eyes. “I’m not your brother. Or your family.”

“No, I suppose you’re not my brother.” Dean pronounces every word carefully. 

“Yes,” Cas can only say. 

Dean takes another step forward, “But I need you here.”

“Dean–” Cas back presses against the wall, out of space to move toward. Dean moves as if in a trance, his eyes glassy like they had been when he had been sick, but dark now with a new intent. 

The last thing he sees is a flash of green before Dean moves forward, moving into Castiel’s space and pressing his lips against Cas's in a hard, new kiss. 

Cas makes a noise, frozen for only a moment before his hands overcome their paralysis, sliding up to grip Dean’s hair, pulling him back roughly to look in his eyes. 

“Dean,” he says breathlessly, ears searching for an answer before he can truly give it. “Do you want this?”

Dean, face flushed, can only nod as he dips forward again, capturing Cas's lips by way of an answer. Cas pulls at Dean’s thick hair again, this time pulling him closer as he moves his lips against his, tilting Dean’s head to the side to deepen the kiss, their lips heated as they part them with a sigh, tongues moving together as Dean’s hands hook behind his back, smoothing down the flannel of Cas's shirt. 

Cas moves then, spinning them and pressing Dean against the wall. He reluctantly moves his hands from their place of control buried in Dean’s hair to explore his chest, his waist, settling for hips, thumbs digging roughly into the bones there. 

Dean makes a desperate noise at the touch, a rough sigh into Castiel’s mouth that parts their lips. 

“Shhh,” Cas soothes, “Let me show you.”

Dean makes a noise of assent at the words, and Cas moves from their joined lips to kiss at the skin of Dean’s throat. Dean had neglected to shave for a few days in winter laziness, and the rough stubble scrapes against his face, Dean’s throat moving as he swallows and grips hard at Castiel’s shirt. He inhales sharply when Cas sucks lightly at his pulse-point. 

Cas can only kiss the sound from his mouth, overcome himself at seeing Dean in a moment of surrender. Something in his mind nags at him, tells him they should stop but he pushes it away, instead moving to smooth his hands down Dean’s arms as their lips move together, unlocking his hands from where they are gripping behind Castiel’s back, his own hands locking around Dean’s wrists and pinning them to the wall next to Dean’s head, bringing their bodies even closer together as he rolls his hips against Dean’s— 

There’s a soft cry from the bedroom and the glass cracks, letting in the cold air.Cas sees with clear eyes the position he and Dean are in while the baby cries in the next room and the heat between them turns to ice. Dean’s eyes widen, looking down and up and everywhere but at Cas. He pushes Cas away and his stomach drops.

“Emma,” Dean stammers, apology and excuse all rolled up into one.

“Dean—”Castiel reaches out but drops his hand at the urgent shake of Dean’s head. 

“No.” Dean almost trips over his own feet, slipping away from Cas's touch.He clenches his jaw.“I...I’m sorry.”

Cas nods, heat building up behind his eyes.

“I gotta see to my girl,” Dean mumbles. Dean pauses, on foot pointed towards the bedroom and the other still facing Cas.

“We’ve been cooped up too long,” Dean says, trying for a grin that turns out more like a grimace, “With the snow.It can make anybody a little stir-crazy.”

Castiel’s expression recedes into one of weary resignation.He gives a curt nod. Dean goes to the oven to pull the bread from the oven. 

“I’ll do the chores,” he says, his voice cracked and strained.He pulls on his boots without lacing them and grabs his still-wet coat from the rack by the stove, heading outside before his arms are even in the sleeves, letting the door swing shut without giving Dean a second glance. 

Emma starts squalling in earnest by the time he heads out through the path they had broken that same morning, time and difference between then and now feeling like a thousand years to Cas's weary soul. He reaches the barn, collapsing against the inside of the door and sinking to the floor. 

* * *

 

 

Cas gets up early the next morning, getting a fire going in the woodstove before even rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.He bundles up extra well, getting a scarf around his neck, along with a pair of Dean’s extra thick gloves over his dry hands, before wrapping himself up in an old coat to head out for the morning chores. Dean still sleeps in the side room; even Emma’s still asleep in the bitter morning chill. 

A fresh blanket of snow covers the ground, but the wind had knocked down some of large banks, obscuring their painstakingly made path. The sky is pearly white, but thankfully still while he breaks a new path, the fresh coat of snow packing down into the old. Even Dean’s tracks from the day before had disappeared, along with the rope trailing from the house to the barn. The prairie sits still and eerie, only the sounds of Cas's footsteps and breathing present to marr the perfect landscape. 

_“You take something good and then make a mess of it–Why can’t you just–” Hannah yells, tears trailing down her face and her hair almost completely out of its bun._

_Cas can barely look at her. “What, Hannah?” he snaps, “Why can’t I what?”_

_“You know that I mean,” she says, her sobs catching at the end of the sentence._

_Cas shakes his head, his chest burning. “I know that I can never trust you again. You were the only friend I had.” He turns around, headed for the door._

_“That’s not fair.” Her hand claws at his shoulder, roughly turning him. Her eyes are wild. “You know it’s not. Zeke never lied to you. You just couldn’t see reality.”_

_Cas shakes her hand off, turning on his heel for the door and letting it slam behind him._

Cas shakes off the voices in his head, barely an echo trying to force itself into his already crowded frame of mind. He knows his memory makes Hannah’s eyes wild and her voice shrill, his own guilt turning her into some kind of monster. It makes him burn with shame. 

Betsy greets him with a low groan when he enters her stall, tin bucket banging at his thigh. Despite the freezing temperatures outside, the barn seems comfortable enough for the animals, and Betsy seems in a fair mood. He takes it as a good sign.

“We can just pretend it never happened–right Betsy? I mean, Dean grew up in a one room house, surely he knows how to ignore problems for the sake of civility,” he says while steadily milking Betsy, the motion repetitive enough to be somewhat comforting. 

Betsy has no response to that, and Cas would swear that she might even have shot him a disapproving look. Dean had shut down, dragging Emma’s crib back into his room without so much as an upward glance at Cas when he had come in from doing the chores.

The trudge back up to the house, after tending to Jet and Baby, takes a shorter amount of time than the trek out with Cas's tracks already dug into the snow. With a drop in his stomach, Cas can already see Dean bustling about at the stove through the back window. 

He stamps his boots thoroughly in the lean-to, ignoring his own steady blush creeping up his neck at the memory of Dean backing him into the wall and kissing him with enough passion to stop a moving freight train– 

For the sake of civility.

He enters the house, nearly bowled over by a shouted greeting from the table.

“Hey there, Cas!”

Sam sits at the table, Emma already in her high chair next to him. Dean has his back to them, stirring the large crock of oatmeal. 

“Big-old school teacher here decided to grace us with his presence this morning,” Dean says, his voice a false cheery. 

“Don’t be such a stick in the mud,” Sam says, ticking Emma under the chin until she all but screams from delight. “School board canceled school until the cold lets up. Too darn cold to sit in the schoolhouse unless they foot the bill for a coal heater instead of wood.”

Cas nods, toeing off his boots and closing the door to the drafty lean-to. Sam’s brow furrows, and he looks around at Dean. 

“What, Dean, no comment about how everyone’s gone soft? How we used to go to school during winter even if we got frostbite on our little toes?”

Dean starts doling out oatmeal at the table, for the first time facing Cas. He looks up, catching Cas's eye, before quickly lowering his gaze back to the table. 

“It is cold,” he says. 

Sam makes a face of disbelief, shrinking back. “There’s definitely something wrong here, if you’re admitting that it’s cold outside.”

“Nothing is wrong,” Cas contributes, dropping the milk bucket off near the stove to thaw before taking a seat next to Sam. 

Sam laughs, “Don’t try and take the pressure off him, Cas. He’s brooding like a horse who threw a shoe–” he glances at Cas, “Come to think of it, so are you.”

“Sammy, can’t you just ignore things like a normal folk do?” Dean asks before taking a large bite of oatmeal.

Cas scoops some in his mouth too, finding it searing hot enough to burn the roof of his mouth. He coughs and sputters, and Sam thumps his back. 

“You alright there, friend?”

“Yes,” Cas gasps, looking up to Dean looking at him with innocent concern. He’d like to roll his eyes, but he couldn’t be sure if Dean was sincere or faking. 

“Ma would have given you a smack for not chewing your food, right, Dean?”

Dean sighs, spooning a little oatmeal onto Emma’s tin dish to cool. “Yeah.”

A moment of silence passes while Sam settles into his own oatmeal. Dean gives Emma her spoon to bang against her tray while her own breakfast cools and the milk thaws. Cas can’t help the rush of affection that always accompanies him witnessing Dean doing something thoughtful for his daughter, immediately tamping it down in favor of cool apathy. 

“Anyway,” Sam starts after a moment, “I only came out to share a bit of good news.”

“Lay it on us, Sammy,” Dean says as he shovels more oatmeal into his mouth. 

Sam smiles, reaching to fish through his pants pocket, coming out with a small wooden box in his hands. He opens it, revealing a small gold ring with an emerald nestled in a small circular setting. It catches the sunlight, gleaming in a charming way. 

“Gonna make it all official with Jess tonight.”

“Criminy, Sammy, you two aren’t married yet?” Dean jokes, a genuine smile lighting up his features. 

“Funny, Dean. I’m going for dinner at her parent’s place later, and I figure when we say goodnight would be as good a time as any,” Sam says, his face going red. 

“Aww, Sammy, look at you. All grown up and romancing and making a life for yourself.” Dean reaches across the table to ruffle his hair. 

“Congratulations, Sam,” Cas says, offering a smile. 

“Thanks. Figured it was time, is all.”

“Well, you two are young for sure, but I can't think of two people who are more well-suited,” Dean says, voice thick. 

“Don't cry on me now, Dean, you'll ruin your winning streak.”

“Shut up,” Dean says, shaking his head. 

Cas smiles, getting up to fill Emma’s bottle with the thawed out milk. He listens, his back to the brothers now. 

“I took care to ask Mr. Moore for permission last week.”

“And how’d that go?”

“He just laughed and said I better not mention my asking his permission to Jess.”

Dean snorts. “What a girl.”

“I hit the jackpot.”

Cas makes his way over to Emma, hoisting her out of her high chair and settling her in his lap once he sits back down. She pulls the bottle closer to her, her grip stronger by the day. 

Cas looks up to find Sam staring at him, a strange smile on his face. 

“Yes?” Cas asks, wondering if he had done something wrong, then realizing that he hadn’t seen Sam in months and he hadn’t exactly been feeding Emma then. 

“Nothing. She’s just taken a liking to you, is all.”

Cas glances at Dean, looking to catch his eye but finding him with his head in his hand with an elbow leaning against the table. 

“Well, I should be heading on back if I want to get some work done before going to Jess’s tonight,” Sam says after a few moments of awkward silence. 

“Right,” Dean says, jumping up, “Thanks for stopping by Sammy. We’re–I’m right happy for you.”

Cas bids him goodbye while Dean walks Sam to the door, slipping on his boots and coat to help Sam with his horse, leaving Cas alone with Emma. She coos and grabs at her almost empty bottle, and Cas shifts her angle to help her get the most of the remaining milk. He can hear Sam talking with Dean as they make their way to the barn, but he ignores it in favor of the crackle of the wood stove and the babbling of Dean’s baby girl.

 

* * *

The cold is bitter as Dean and Sam trudge from the house to the barn where the mare Sam must have borrowed from the Moore’s is waiting. 

“You okay leaving them alone?” Sam asks, apropos of nothing, “I could have managed on my own.”

“Cas and Emma?Why wouldn’t I be?” Dean asks, flipping up his coat collar. “They’ll keep for five minutes.”

Dean’s nerves are starting to fray from all the tension in the house, and Sam’s odd line of questioning isn’t helping things.It ain’t like Cas is a danger to Emma, however Dean has mucked things up with his damned urges. 

“Things seem a lot cosier since I last came up, is all,” Sam comments, shrugging, “Especially seeing as he isn’t your kin.”

“It’s winter.Quarters are closer.‘Sides, I run a practical house.” Dean says, rolling his eyes, “When Emma needs feeding whoever has empty hands does the job.Believe me, she doesn’t mind as long as she gets her bottle.”

“So you’re paying Cas to be your housekeeper?” Sam asks, “He’s a good man, Dean, but it’s February.You don’t need a farmhand right now, you need a wife.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Dean cuts him off, “There’s no woman who’ll have me with the threat of Lydia hanging over her head, and I won’t ask a lady to live and work in my house unmarried.So here we are at the impasse.”

“With you alone,” Sam points out.

“I have Cas,” Dean corrects him, “And maybe he’s not the kind of help I expected, but he _does_ help.He _wants_ to help me, and to be honest after the year I’ve had a little loyalty makes for a nice change.” 

That is evidently the wrong thing to say, though Dean was referring to Lydia and not his brother.Sam’s expression shutters, and for a moment he looks like the angry boy Dean remembers in the years after their mother’s passing.As it did then, Sam’s hurt comes out as meanness. 

“And how long do you plan on having Cas sleep in the house?” Sam asks, voice quiet, “With his bed two feet from Emma’s crib?”

“I pull her into my room at night,” Dean replies, brow furrowed, “And the barn is freezing this time of year.I’m only trying to-”

“You and I slept through the winter in that barn for _years_.”

“So what, Sam?” Dean demands, throwing up his hands, “Maybe the barn’s just not as snug as it was ten years ago.Maybe I’m too soft with my help.You don’t live here anymore, so it’s not your business!”

Dean’s voice echoes in the empty landscape and he realizes that he’s been shouting ever since they reached the barn.Sam is deflating, mouth thin as he turns his face away, and Dean knows he doesn’t want to send his brother back to town like this.Not when they likely won’t see each other for a month at least.

Dean sighs, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his hand.He can feel a headache coming on.He says, “Look, Cas and I have been...tense for a few days.We’re cooped up, Emma’s teething, and if Lydia is coming back it ain’t til the spring thaw, so yeah.I’m doing my best here, Sammy.”

“I know.” Sam huffs, shoving his hands in his coat pockets.“And you’re right.”

“Sam—”

“No,” Sam interrupts him, “You are, Dean.I’m not here, and that was my choice.Maybe I wouldn’t make the same calls, but you gotta run your own house.So...yeah.Tell me when to butt out.”

“Will do,” Dean promises, pulling his brother into a hug, “Don’t be risking your neck riding out here again, y’hear?I’ll see you when the snow melts.”

Sam slaps him on the back before they step apart, offering a shaky grin.“Get this wasp out of your johns before spring,” he says, “I need you to stand up with me at the altar, and Jess won’t have you being grumpy on her wedding day.”

Dean takes the half hearted jab for the olive branch it is.“Sure, Sammy,” he agrees, “Try not to chase her off before then and it’s a deal.”

Dean waves as Sam rides away, waiting until his brother is just a speck in the distance before finally turning back to the house.Cas and Emma are inside, along with the elephant he dragged into the room with his foolish impulses.Dean sighs.He’d nearly had a good thing, and as usual he’d fucked it all to hell. 

If Cas chooses to leave Dean doesn’t know what he’ll do, but he isn’t sure he has the guts to ask him to stay.

 

* * *

 

 

The day passes with minimal communication, and Cas feels as if he is walking on eggshells whenever Dean is in the house. Despite the biting cold, Dean ventures out several times to “check the stock” as if a wall to the barn could have fallen down since Cas had done the morning chores. Cas begins to mark the hours by Dean pulling on his boots and coat again, even though his face was still red from his last trip into the cold, even after the sun had gone down and dark snow clouds had begun to roll through the sky. 

“Dean–”

“It’s fine, Cas. I got it.”

Cas grabs for his boots. “Let me go out, you’ve barely even warmed up yet–”

Dean steers him away from the lean-to door. “No. I’m gonna check on things, then I’ll be right back.”

“It looks like a storm’s coming,” Cas insists, pointing out the window, “You don’t need to get caught in a blizzard now.”

“And you do?” Dean snaps, his face hard. 

Cas swallows, his chest feeling uncomfortably tight. “Suit yourself.” He turns, going back to sit in the rocking chair and stare at his book. 

The door slams while his back is turned, and he watches Dean trudge through the darkness back to the barn. The words swim on the page in front of him, and he finds it hard to glean any meaning from them. He turns the page, thinking that maybe the next plot point will catch his interest, when Emma starts to fuss in her crib.

Cas stands up, walking over to the area closer to the stove where Dean drags the crib to during the day. Emma thrashes around in her nightgown, beginning to cry in earnest. 

“Shh…” he says, reaching a hand down into the crib to smooth her blonde hair away from her forehead. Dean had fed and changed her only an hour before, so he feels for the heat of a fever on her forehead. Finding her cool, he reaches down to pick her up. 

Her crying only picks up from the contact, and he bounces her up and down in her arms. She only cries harder, pounding her tiny fists against his shoulders in protestation. 

“I know, Emma,” he says, sitting down in the rocking chair, “Sometimes it’s hard to see the good in the world.”

Emma hiccups, her face contorted and red from crying. He cradles her so that she can lay her head back. He remembers, through the clouded eyes of his younger self, watching his own mother with Anna, calming her crying when food or drink or changing wasn’t enough.

He hums the tune first, trying to remember. 

“Lavender’s blue, dilly dilly, lavender’s green… when–when I am king, dilly dilly, you shall be queen.  Who told you so, dilly, dilly, who told you so? 'Twas my own heart, dilly, dilly, that told me so…”

He struggles to remember the rest of the words, but he hums until Emma falls asleep in his arms, her eyes gently closed and hands relaxed from their angry fists. 

Cas looks up when a burst of cold comes from the doorway, along with a fresh batch of snowflakes. Dean stands in the entry to the lean-to, a strange look on his face as he unwraps the scarf from around his face. 

Dean clears his throat. “Storm’s picking up. You were right.”

Cas nods slowly, minding Emma still in his arms. “Good you got your work done now, then.”

Dean nods back. “Jet and Baby are all hunkered down, same with Betsy. They should be good until the storm lets up.”

Cas nods again, and he’s beginning to think they’ll be caught in a never-ending exchange of passive body language until spring, when Dean looks at him again.

“I can take her,” he says simply, striding over to lift Emma from Cas's arms. He walks her back over to her crib, setting her down gently in the blankets. 

“She was crying.”

Dean’s hands tighten on the slats of Emma’s crib. “I figured.”

“I’m sorry if I overstepped–”

“You didn’t.”

Cas swallows hard, and stands up. His hands fidget by his sides, and he makes his way over to the kitchen and starts peeling potatoes for their supper, the skin rough and gritty against his hands. Dean sidles up beside him one potato in, Emma already back in her crib, grabbing the knife from him. The contact sends a jolt through Cas, but anger burns in his sternum. 

“I can get that,” Dean says simply, avoiding Cas's eye.

“I’m only trying to help, Dean.”

“Well you don’t have to. Not all the time.”

Dean continues to the slice the potato, but when it’s completed he makes no move to get the skillet.

“I don’t know what you want me to say, Cas.”

Cas shrugs, crossing his arms over his chest. “Anything would be a start.”

Dean walks away, moving to hang his coat up on the hook by the door and set his boots by the stove to dry. 

Something wells up in Cas's throat. He swallows it down, fighting to keep his voice even. 

“Emma’s asleep, I could pack up my bags and be gone in the morning.”

“It’s thirty below outside, Cas, don’t be stupid–”

“Then what do you want from me, Dean?” he insists, an uglier mirror to the same question he had asked the evening before.

“I don’t know!” Dean whispers harshly, his body language indicating that he wishes to shout but controls himself for Emma’s sake. “I’ve never–I’m not–”

Cas crosses his arms. “I reckon you don’t have a word for it on the prairie.”

Dean laughs, shaking his head. “There’s plenty of them. My father liked a few in particular.”

Cas sags, an invisible weight pressing him down at the shoulders. A muscle jumps in Dean’s jaw.

“I,” he starts, approaching Dean but keeping his distance, “I want to help you.”

“I know you want that,” Dean says, running a frustrated hand over his face, “You say these things–You want to help me, and work beside me, and-and-”

Dean’s words peter out and he can only gesture between them, covering his mouth.

“I want to touch you,” Cas finishes. 

Dean stares at him, fear clouding his eyes, and nods.

Castiel’s hands settle on his shoulders, and Dean flinches away. He lifts them away, holding them up, palms out.

“I understand your fear, believe me.”

Dean shakes his head, looking down. “It’s not that. Well, it is, but it’s not the only thing.”

Cas sits down at the kitchen table, gesturing for Dean to follow him. He stares at the chair as if it is a personal threat to his health before sitting down, laying his head in his hands. 

“I’m supposed to be doing those things with my wife,” Dean says, dejected, “She was supposed to be the one...but she didn’t want any of it.”

Castiel holds his reply, waiting for Dean to go on. 

He laughs under his breath. “I even promised my father that I would be a good husband. Cherish my wife, in sickness and in health. But you–” He stops, sighing before continuing, “You’re the one who cared for me when I was ill. I might have died out here all alone and my daughter would, God only knows. Lydia should have been here.”

Cas searches for Dean’s eyes, but they are covered with the flat of his hand. “Lydia’s decisions aren’t your fault.”

“No, you’re right on that,” Dean says, “You’re right on that. But I am responsible for my own… feelings.”

“What are you feeling?”

Dean lifts his head, green eyes locking onto Cas. 

“I’m glad she’s gone,” Dean confesses, “My child is motherless and I’m glad, because of you.Because everything Lydia threw away, you want to share with me.”

Dean gets up, moving about the kitchen as if looking for something to occupy his hands. The dishes are clean and put away, the oven polished, and the stove full of fuel to last them the night. He grips the back of the char instead, muscles flexing with the strain. 

“When I’m with you I start to hope Lydia never comes back,” Dean mutters, defeated. He pushes in the chair, striding over to his bedroom and disappearing into the dark room with a flick of the curtain. 

Cas considers walking away, taking his coat and sleeping in the barn for the night; rising up early the next morning to make the walk back into to town to see if the trains were still running. If not–Ellen and Jo might put him up for a few nights. Dean wouldn’t tell of what happened here, and no one would question a farm hand getting up and leaving to find better work or warmer weather. 

He shakes his head, taking hold of the kerosene lamp sitting on the table. He takes a look at Emma, still sound asleep in her crib near the kitchen, unaware and blissful looking. He comes to the curtain pulling it aside to enter Dean’s bedroom. 

The lamp illuminates Dean’s form, sitting up with his back to the headboard facing forward. The dim light of the kerosene light throws the lines of Dean’s face into sharp relief, making him look older, and certainly more tired. Castiel clears his throat. 

“I don’t think I’ll ever forget one of the first questions you asked me,” Cas starts, and Dean sits up, “You asked me if I was a peaceful man. I’m ashamed to say that I lied. I’ve never truly known what peace felt like, until I came here.”

Dean stays silent, and Cas presses on. “I was fifteen when my parents secured me a place in a somewhat well-known boarding school. My family has money, and despite being of questionable background, Deerfield Academy decided to take it.

“I don’t know how much you know about boarding school, Dean, but there’s a side to it not many like to talk about. My parents didn’t know about it, not being people who ever went themselves of course. I wish there were an institution here I could compare it to.”

Dean’s voice cuts through the air. “Cas, you don’t have to tell me this–”

“I assure you, Dean, that unless you stop me I’ll continue.”

Dean finally turns toward him, his knee hitching up on the bed. He nods, and Cas continues.  


“The first time it happened, it was with an older boy. He told me that boys did these things at school. No girls around, and a school full of boys just putting all the pieces together about how things work. Bound to happen, really.”

He scuffs his foot on the ground, thinking back to the hushed moments in corners and secrets hidden under bed covers. 

“It was expected. Even encouraged in a strange way. But the one rule was that you had to grow out of it. 

He swallows hard. “Then I went to university. I wasn’t a boy anymore, and, I lied Dean. There was someone. I met a man by the name of Ezekiel.”

Cas attempts to call up his face in his mind, all of its sharp corners and stern dispositions, but it avoids his internal gaze, just skirting out of focus before he can truly picture it. The feelings remains: worry, sadness, and admiration despite them both. 

“He was a year older than me. And from a more respected family. We had grown up just down the street from each other, but hadn't met until we went to the same university. Not much in common.Except, he and I had never really grown out of our boarding school phase.”

A shadow passes over Dean’s face. Cas swallows hard and presses on. 

“I won’t mince words, Dean. I loved him the way a man is supposed to love a woman. It was…” he looks at Dean, heat flushing his face, “Consuming. We made plans, tried to pretend like something could come of it. For a while I believed that something might.”

“What happened to him?”

Cas takes a deep breath, exhaling shakily. “He announced his engagement to a woman named Hannah that we had grown up with. I think it had always been arranged. I just refused to see it, since Hannah had always been my friend. She knew about us, kept our secrets.”

Dean’s brow furrows. “Are they still in Maine?”

Cas shakes his head, running a tired hand over his face. “The war had already been in full swing, and he enlisted to fight for the Union after the engagement was announced. He died in his second week of service.”

He sets the lamp down on Dean’s side table, not realizing he had been holding it with a shaking hand. 

“I quit school, and started running to the west. I avoided enlisting, I’m sorry to say that I was a coward. I didn’t want to die like Ezekiel, as much as I wanted to join him.”

Dean’s eyes widen, and he stands up, walking over to stand in front of Cas. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, “I don’t know what to say.”

Cas bites his lip, feeling heat behind his eyes. “I just want you know, that what happened wasn’t driven by lust, or some perversion. You’re a–you’re a good man, Dean. That’s all.”

Dean stares, and Cas watches his throat work as he swallows. 

“I just wanted to help you, Dean. I never meant for this to happen, and you’d only have to say the word and I would be gone.”

Seconds pass, and the clock ticks from the great room. After a few more, Dean speaks. 

“I–” he stutters, voice thick with some kind of emotion, “I don’t want you to think that–that I–that _you_ are the only one responsible. I’m as much in this as you are.”

“Don’t do that,” Cas starts, his voice strained, “Don’t start taking responsibility. I can’t have it.”

“Why?” Dean throws up his hands. “Do you want to be alone in this?”

“Is there somewhere else I can be, Dean?”

Dean doesn’t answer, just stands stock still, hands open at his sides and skin illuminated by the dim light of the kerosene lamp, and Cas is reminded of the stormy night they spent in the root cellar, steeped in silence and shared company. He moves slowly, stepping into Dean’s space as if it were holy ground. He looks for warning signs, for Dean to shrink back in disgust, or worse, pity, but it doesn’t come. Cas takes Dean’s face between his hands, holding it with a feather-light touch. 

“Cas–” Dean gasps, “Just–”

Dean doesn’t finish, but Cas understands that he’ll have to be the one to move this time. 

Dean’s lips are soft, warm and full and pushing against Cas's with just an edge of urgency. Cas's hands move down to grasp at Dean’s shirt, the flannel catching on the dry skin of his hands. Dean groans at the touch, back arching and Cas takes the opportunity to deepen the kiss, opening Dean’s mouth with his own and sucking on his lower lip before pressing a hand to Dean’s lower back, inching him closer until their hips meet flush. 

Dean gasps into his mouth and it sends a jolt down to Cas's groin. He takes hold of Dean’s face again, breaking away from his lips to tip his head back and expose the skin of his neck. He presses a kiss to the pulse point there, sucking lightly until Dean is panting and grabbing at his arms for support. 

Cas backs them up, claiming Dean’s lips again and stopping when the back of Dean’s knees meet the bedframe. He pushes down on Dean’s shoulder, surprised when he feels resistance. 

His eyes fly open and he lets go of Dean immediately. 

“I’m sorry–Dean–I didn’t mean–”

“Quiet,” Dean interrupts, holding up a hand and sitting down on the bed. “Just gimme a minute.”

Cas waits, watching the pain on Dean’s face recede away. Slowly, Dean looks up. 

“Okay.”

He reaches up, taking a fistful of Cas's shirt and pulling him down. Cas makes a noise of surprise, but quickly recovers as Dean scoots back on the bed, inviting Cas to lie with him with nervous eyes. Cas obliges quickly, following Dean until he is spread over him, knees flanking one of his thighs. He supports himself on his forearms, leaning down to give Dean another thorough kiss. Dean whimpers in earnest this time, hands moving up to smooth at Cas's back, pressing down until their hips meet flush again. 

Cas gasps when he feels the line of Dean’s erection against his own, their mouths open against the other. Cas waits for Dean’s eyes to open again, silently asking for permission. Dean’s hands grapple at the small of his back, pulling him down again with scrambling hands.

“Cas,” he gasps, “Come on–just–”

Cas doesn’t wait any longer, just buries his head in Dean’s neck to suck at his pulse point as he bear his hips down against his. Dean groans, and Cas moves between Dean’s legs, hitching one leg around his hip. He builds to a rhythm.

“As long as you’ll have me– ,” he gasps, Dean grabbing fistfuls of his shirt, “I’ll stay. I’ll be right here– _oh_ –”

Dean’s hands don’t stop moving, one smoothing down Cas's back and other grasping at the hairs on the back of his neck. Cas manages to get a few buttons of Dean’s shirt open, ripping the collar aside with his hand and kissing the skin of Dean’s shoulder and collarbone. Dean arches to give him better access, meeting each of Cas's thrusts with a wave of his own hips, soft whimpers beginning to spill from his mouth. 

“Cas–” he gasps, rucking up Cas's shirt to paw at his bare skin, “Don’t stop–”

Cas steals the words out of his mouth, bracing on his forearms again to kiss Dean again, tongues sliding together in their open mouths. A heat starts to form in Cas's belly, burning like wildfire. His orgasm begins rising to the surface, and it’s Dean’s gasping voice that tips him over the edge. 

“ _Cas_.”

Cas's hips stutter as the sensation rolls over him like a wave, heady and overwhelming and not nearly enough. Dean presses his hands to his ass, pulling him closer as he rides out the aftershocks. 

Dean pants beneath him, and Cas moves quickly, knowing post-orgasm exhaustion will set in soon. He sits back on his heels, pushing Dean’s shirt up to expose the soft and pale skin of his belly. He kisses up to his chest, swirling his tongue around Dean’s sternum and sighing when Dean threads his hands through his hair, not pulling but stroking it back from his forehead. He kisses down his chest to his ribcage, congratulating himself when Dean shudders. He places a hand on the buttons of Dean’s pants, feeling Dean tense up.

Cas looks up, meeting Dean’s eyes. 

“There’s something I want to do, but tell me if you want me to stop,” Cas says, voice low. 

Dean takes a deep breath, and it shudders in his chest. He strokes Cas's hair again, nodding and lying back. 

Cas sets to unbuttoning Dean’s pants, light brown hair trailing from his navel down to his groin. He pulls them down, letting them bunch around Dean’s knees with his long underwear. Cas keeps a hand on Dean’s stomach, taking his flushed and hard cock in hand and giving it a few strokes. Dean’s breath hitches, and Cas takes it as a good sign, settling between Dean’s legs in earnest. 

The noise Dean makes when Cas takes his cock into his mouth sends a jolt down his chest to his groin, and if he got a good night’s sleep and were seven years younger he’d be hard again just from the sound. He sucks at the head, his thumbs massaging Dean’s hipbones as he takes him deeper into his mouth. Dean throws an arm over his eyes, the other hand searching out to smooth through Cas's hair. 

“Cas. Oh God–” he pants, clearly trying to keep his hips from bucking and shaking with the effort. He pulls at Cas's hair, the slight pressure on his scalp making Cas groan around the cock in his mouth. 

He works one hand around the base while moving up and down, sucking and licking at the underside while Dean tries to keep it together. Castiel picks up his pace, feeling the tension of Dean’s orgasm begin to coil in his mouth. 

“Don’t stop,” Dean begs, “Please–Cas. _Castiel_ –”

Cas hollows out his cheeks, taking him as deep as he can as Dean comes, orgasm ripping a moan from him as he spends in Cas's mouth. He lets him buck into his mouth, eyes fluttering shut at the sensation of Dean coming apart under his ministrations. Cas swallows the salty liquid, backing off when Dean starts to twitch from overstimulation. 

He looks up at Dean, still lying with his arm over his eyes as he catches his breath. Cas joins him, crawling up to lie next to him on his back, side by side. Dean lowers his arm after a few seconds, letting it float down until his hand catches a few of Cas's fingers. 

“That was–” he stutters, voice thick and heavy. “I've never–”

Cas swallows, the taste of Dean still on his tongue. 

“I know,” he replies.

Dean sighs, turning on his back and reaching down to pull his pants back up over his hips. The clock ticks on in the great room, suddenly loud again in the absence of noise. 

“What the hell are we gonna do?” Dean mutters, staring at the ceiling.

The words send a chill down Cas's spine. He moves slowly, smoothing a hand over Dean’s stomach, and, finding him pliant to the touch, pulls him in so that his back is flush with Cas's chest. He knows a moment of vulnerability in a man like Dean causes unspeakable pain to the bearer of it, and he presses a lingering kiss to the back of his neck. 

“We’ll work it out,” Cas says, pulling him closer, “I know we will.”

* * *

 

 

Dean wakes the next morning with Cas's breath on the back of his neck and his world view permanently adjusted.Lying in Cas's arms, remembering the heat of his mouth, Dean shivers.He’d never realized it was possible, to be so overcome with feeling.With _pleasure_.Every touch of Cas's lips against his skin had marked him like a firebrand.Being pinned by Castiel’s unmistakably masculine weight had awoken a hunger Dean had never indulged until last night.

Dean is man enough to admit, at least in his own thoughts, that his eye has wandered over a pair of strong shoulders more than once in his lifetime.There was no sin in admiring the beauty of the Lord’s creation, he’d told himself on those occasions.But there’s never been enough of a draw to act, as he’s been compelled to with Castiel.The urge to reach out and touch is rare enough for him to experience, let alone with a partner who brings so much risk to Dean’s family and livelihood. 

Yet urged he is in the days to come, now that he’s been granted permission, so to speak.His fingers constantly itch to slip under Cas's shirt, to learn the lines and edges of him.Dean finds himself seeking out the press of Castiel’s mouth with his own, the chapped skin and rough stubble intriguing and alluring to his inexperienced senses. 

That isn’t to say that there’s only lust between them.In the week after coming to their understanding Emma’s teething comes to a head, and it’s several long days of fussing, with Emma’s mood going sour at the drop of a hat on account of the pain in her mouth.Dean and Cas spend the daylight passing her back and forth between them, trying their best to soothe her with sweetened milk, or a rattle chilled in the snow, to little avail.Emma’s habit of sleeping through the night stalls, and it’s a blessed relief on the third day after supper to finally see the appearance of a pearly white milk tooth peeking through her gums.Her pain relieved at last, Emma falls asleep quickly, and her caretakers are swift to follow.He and Cas fall into Dean’s bed together, exhausted, and Dean hardly has the thought that Cas might expect something of him when the man pulls Dean against his chest, kisses the top of his head, and promptly begins to snore.Dean falls asleep with his head tucked under Castiel’s chin, his ear pressed to his partner’s beating heart.It’s one of the most peaceful rests he’s ever enjoyed.

With the aid of her crib rail or a sturdy chair Emma begins pulling herself to a standing position without help, even managing a few clumsy steps with the support of furniture or her father’s hands.It’s bittersweet, the joy of Emma growing strong and healthy tempered by Dean’s knowledge that in a blink she’ll be a toddler, then a girl, and in no time at all a young woman, with struggles much more complicated than placing one foot in front of the other.

The effects of Dean’s choices (and his wife’s) on his only child weigh heavy as he lays Emma down in her crib for the night.It was a busy day, at least for his baby girl, and she had fallen asleep before she even finished her bottle. 

Cas places his palm warm and steady against his back.Dean leans gratefully into the touch as they watch the steady rise and fall of Emma’s chest in slumber.He sighs, turning to face him.

“I have to hope that Lydia comes back.”

Castiel sighs, dropping a kiss on Dean’s shoulder.“I know,” he replies.

“It’s not what I want for myself,” Dean says, scrubbing a hand through his hair, “But Emma...if Lydia came back I couldn’t turn her away.” 

“I understand,” Cas sighs, “Believe me, I do.”

“If I was unattached,” Dean continues, “If I were unmarried and no baby—”

“Let’s not venture down that road,” Castiel cuts him off gently, “Things are as they are.”

Dean nods.He pulls Cas's hand to his lips, kissing his knuckles and pressing Cas's warm palm to his cheek.

“I can’t make you any promises,” he murmurs, heart heavy, “Much as I’d like to, Cas.It’s out of my hands.”

Cas traces his thumb over Dean’s cheekbone, his smile warm, and more than a little sad.He kisses Dean’s temple, then rests his brow there with a shaky exhale.

“One day at a time,” he says at last, “That’s all I will ever ask of you.That’s all anyone can ask.”


	4. Spring

“Mm... _Dean..._ ”

The predawn light is weak and thin, slipping in through the barn door to cast some illumination to the stall where Dean and Cas are intertwined at the head of Castiel’s bed.Dean is sitting up, fully dressed with Cas against his shoulder, still in his bedclothes, his drawers pushed down enough that Dean can wrap his fingers around the hot length of his cock.Cas grabs at the back of Dean’s shirt, panting as Dean licks his palm to ease the slide of his fist.It’s been a season of lessons, learning each other with hands and mouths, and Dean has grown to love the weight and thickness of Cas in his grip. 

“I dreamt about you last night,” Dean whispers hotly into Cas's ear as he works him, “I was a lonely sailor, and you were Neptune tempting me into the brine.” 

“Oh?”Cas's lips are parted and wet, his brow furrowed in pleasure. “How mischievous of me.” 

Dean nibbles the skin behind Castiel’s ear and he gasps, twitching in Dean’s grip.

“It was just like you tell it to me.I could almost feel the spray, and taste the salt,” Dean continues, twisting his wrist over the head of Cas's cock, “I woke up wanting you.” 

Cas bites his lip.“Dean-”

“Yeah,” Dean breathes, more focused on Cas's pleasure than his own words, “Cas, lemme see-”

Cas groans low and comes over Dean’s fist, his grip in Dean’s shirt clenching tight against Dean’s back.Dean keeps his hand moving until the tension of Cas's orgasm dissipates into the shivers of oversensitivity.

At Cas's urging Dean releases his cock, wiping his wet fingers on a handkerchief that he tosses into the basin of water beside the bed. 

“It’s fortunate today is Sunday,” Cas says with a satisfied hum, nuzzling into the crook of Dean’s neck, “I hardly think I have the strength to stand, let alone push a plow.”

Dean chuckles, a blush heating his cheeks.“I’m glad my technique is improving.”

“It’s not the technique that undoes me,” Castiel rumbles, easing his hand up Dean’s inseam until Dean stops him with a gentle touch.He would love nothing more than to let Cas continue on his present course, but they have errands to run, and Emma has already been alone in the house too long.

“We should get to town,” Dean suggests, “Before the whole day is gone.I can wait.”

Cas nods and drops a kiss just under Dean’s jaw.“I’ll look forward to later, then.”

Dean squeezes Cas's hand before releasing him to get dressed for the day.“Me too.”

Cas lights his kerosene lamp to lend them some better light for their chores.

It’s been a few weeks since the landscape well and truly thawed out for the year, and Cas has been sleeping in the barn again ever since.It was the first real lover’s spat between them, but Dean’s stung feelings were not to be outweighed by Cas's practicality. 

“I wish you would stay in the house,” Dean still pouts, watching Cas pull on his shirt, “The double bed is there for a reason, you know.”

“We don’t want your family asking questions when they come for supper,” Castiel reminds him, clipping on his suspenders, “Besides...”

Cas tips Dean’s chin up for a kiss, tracing his knuckles feather light up the arch of Dean’s adam’s apple.“...this way our good mornings are always special.”

Dean grumbles, but he doesn’t deny Cas his kiss.Far from it. 

Eventually they make it to town with a cheerful Emma in tow.After inspecting his seed drill just before the thaw Dean had ordered a new runner to replace one that was rusted through, and they stop in to the Moore’s shop to pick it up.Dean also steps into the Land Office to file some paperwork, setting up a contract to sign over two acres of his homestead to Sam.It should be enough for a house, and a barn if they want one, with plenty of space left for Jess to have a nice big garden.It’s been Dean’s plan all along, and now that they’ve set a date for the wedding later in the spring he can write it up all legal and whatnot. 

“That’s a very thoughtful gift,” Cas says when Dean explains it all after, tucking the envelope of paperwork in his baby satchel. 

“Yeah, well, good land is hard to come by these days.‘Sides, I put ‘em on the closer side to town.They’ll be close enough to school and the store and we’ll have our _privacy_.”Dean winks as he delivers the final part of that statement just to see Cas blush and it works. 

They’ve not much else specific to do in town, but it's a pleasant enough morning and after a hard few weeks of getting the fields plowed it's nice to get off the farm for a few hours.Against Dean'sinsistence Cas treats them to a hot roll from a vendor on the street corner. They split the warm iced bun between them, enjoying the tender pastry and sweet icing as they stroll down Main street in the mild spring weather. 

Cas is readying the wagon when they’re caught by the morning church service letting out, and Dean is waylaid by the town ladies, all eager to coo over Emma like she’s the newest Paris fashion. 

“You missed a fair sermon, Mr. Winchester,” Ellen greets him, looking well in her Sunday best, “Did you oversleep?”

“Yep,” Dean lies smoothly, “You know me, ma’am.Hard pressed to be up before noon on the day of rest.”

“Hm,” Ellen replies.She’s plainly unconvinced, but as usual lets him get away without a fuss.It’s not much of a secret that Dean ain’t the church going type.When he was a bachelor Ellen never had an opinion on the matter, but apparently now that he’s a family man she has to at least give the appearance of scolding him. 

“Well, you'll have to make more of an effort to be on time next Sunday,”Ellen continues, “As we've scheduled to have Miss Emma here baptized.”

“What?” Dean squawks as Ellen liberates him of his only child.Emma, the little traitor, immediately giggles and reaches for the cameo necklace at Ellen’s throat. 

“There’s no use raising a fuss,” she replies, smiling at Emma, “Pastor Shurley had the time available and we’ve already made the expected donation on her behalf.”

“And was I going to be informed of this ceremony?” Dean inquires indignantly.

“Jessica was going to tell you tomorrow,” Ellen says, bouncing a delighted Emma in her arms, “So it’s just as well.Jo’s christening gown might still be serviceable if you’ve got need-”

“I have one,” Dean interrupts her, arms crossed, “Though I was under the impression it was up to me when to use it.” 

Ellen lowers her voice slightly.“It ain't a secret why you've been putting it off,” she says, not unkindly, “But things are as they are, and it’s high time Emma Winchester was welcomed into this parish.”

“I was just trying to — ” Dean tries to interject.

“I know what you were trying to do,” Ellen says, “And it's kind of you, Dean, but you're a practical man and what would really be kinder is letting your little one get into the normal course of things.”

Dean grumbles, but what's done is done and Ellen has a fair point.He gives the ladies as polite a goodbye as he can manage. 

“Apparently we’re gonna have Emma baptized after service next Sunday,” Dean informs Cas, returning to the waiting wagon with a pouting baby, “They’ve gone over my head and paid the reverend already.”

“Who?” Castiel asks, somewhat shocked.The ladies wave their handkerchiefs at them from the front porch of the little church building. 

“It’s a damned coalition,” Dean mutters before clucking for Baby to start moving and get them away from all these busybody women.

After supper Dean digs through his trunk, looking a few layers down for the carefully wrapped christening gown that Mary Winchester had sewed for her first born’s baptism the year after she and John arrived in Kansas.

“Did you find it?” Cas asks from the kitchen, cleaning up their dishes.

“Yup,” Dean replies, paper package in hand, “Hopefully no moths have gotten to it.I reckon it hasn’t seen the light of day in near twenty years.”

Cas has cleared off the table so Dean can free the infant clothes from their twine and brown paper.Over the last twenty years packed away the white christening gown has faded to more of a warm ivory, but the lace trim and intricate smocking are as pristine as the day Mary finished them. 

“It’s a mite old fashioned,” Dean admits, laying out the delicate cotton gown and its matching cap, “But it ain’t exactly the sort of thing you can order on short notice.‘Sides, Sam and I both were sprinkled in it and we turned out alright.” 

Castiel shrugs, saying, “Most christening gowns look about the same.I think the family connection is more important than current infant fashion, regardless.”

“Thanks for putting that in perspective,” Dean says with a laugh. 

“Does it fit?” Cas checks, “Emma isn’t exactly a newborn.” 

“We’ll slip it on her in the morning, just in case,” Dean replies, “But Sammy near came out of the womb the size Emma is now, and he managed, so I’m not too worried.”

Cas hangs up the cleaned pan from dinner and wipes his hands on a dishrag.“So that’s settled until Sunday, I suppose, since Sam and Jess agreed to be godparents.”

“Yup, all the ceremony is their problem,” Dean agrees, “And for us just a week’s worth of planting.I’ll take that trade any day.”

Cas shakes his head, grinning ruefully.“All this work.It’s almost enough to make me miss the snow.” 

“At least the ploughing is done,” Dean quips, slinging his arms around Cas's neck, “Tomorrow we set up the seed drill, and that’s the planting done by the end of the month.” 

“Sounds like you have our spring planned down to the minute,” Cas hums, hands settling comfortably on Dean’s hips, “Mother Nature dare not defy the scheduling of Farmer Winchester.”

“Why don’t you just wish for a drought, talking like that,” Dean scolds with a barely concealed grin, cuffing Cas lightly on the back of the head, “Off to the barn with you, before you bring a damned swarm of locusts on our heads.”

“As you wish,” Castiel sighs, with a hand to his forehead like the hero of a melodrama, “I shall retire, to languish in my solitude.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean mutters, stealing Cas's hand from his brow to press a quick kiss to the knuckles, “Save it for Betsy, Shakespeare.”

Cas grips Dean’s chin between his finger and thumb, and tips his head down for a real kiss.His free hand slips from Dean’s hip to the front of his trousers, stroking over his button fly. 

“Come get me up a few minutes early tomorrow,” Cas murmurs when they part, “I haven’t forgotten where we left off this morning.”

Dean steals one more kiss.“You’re gonna keep me up all night, talking like that.”

“We can’t have that,” Cas replies, ceasing his tortuous touch, “Goodnight, Dean.”

“‘Night, Cas.”

The following week passes quickly, as Dean expects most of spring will.After the relative laziness of winter, getting back into the rhythm of more demanding work makes the days fly. Things still run more efficiently than in the past, seeing as Dean is free now to take Emma into town to stay with Jess while Cas completes the morning chores.They’re able to move on more quickly to the day’s work, namely the planting of this year’s wheat crop, which goes easier than it did last last year when Dean was either working alone or with a reluctant Sam in tow.He and Cas make a good team in the fields, and Dean finds himself able to fetch Emma home earlier in the evening.That extra hour of time Dean is able to spend with his baby girl thanks to Castiel’s help is more precious than he can name.

They have near fifty acres of wheat planted by the time the next Saturday evening rolls around.Dean is enjoying the satisfied exhaustion of the farmer after a full week, sprawled out in his chair by the mantle.Likewise Cas is stretched out on the floor by Dean’s feet with a book, enjoying an hour with his friend Thomas Aquinas.They’ve given Emma free roam of the house, having set up their makeshift gate around the stove.Being at her eye level Castiel bears the brunt of her attentions, but he seems to be taking it in good spirits. 

Dean tries to intervene after the third time Emma tosses her ragdoll in front of Cas's book. 

“Sweetheart, give the man a moment’s peace.”

Cas blinks when Dean speaks up, too immersed in his reading to notice Emma’s attempts to play.

“I’ll take her,” Dean offers, but Cas waves him off.

“It’s alright,” he says, putting his book aside before addressing Emma. “Hello, my dear.What were you trying to tell me?I’m afraid my attentions were elsewhere.” 

“Gah,” Emma demands, plopping onto her bottom in front of Cas and reaching for her doll. 

“Who’s this?” Cas asks, plucking up the ragdoll and wiggling her just out of reach of Emma’s fingers, “Is she a friend of yours?Did Miss Jessica make her for you?”

Emma claps and kicks her feet, delighted to be entertained.Dean smiles despite his exhaustion, heart warmed to see Cas being so patient and gentle with his energetic girl. 

“What’s her name?Marta?Or it could be Naomi.Maybe it’s Anastas--oh, what’s that?” Cas raises his eyebrows comically, bringing the doll to his ear as though she has something to say.He nods seriously and Dean tries to keep his laughter at bay as Emma watches, rapt. 

“I see,” Cas says at last, nodding, before informing Emma, “She’s insisting on Marta, if you don’t mind.”

“Mahbubah,” Emma repeats dutifully. 

“Exactly,” Cas agrees, nose wrinkling in a smile before he dances Marta the ragdoll back into Emma’s eager grip.Emma clings to Marta, scolding her in her baby babble as if to chastise her for sharing a conversation with Castiel and not herself.Cas laughs at her antics, quieting when he realizes how intently Dean is watching them. 

“What?” he asks, a blush dusting his cheeks. 

“Nothin’,” Dean replies, a smile tugging at the edges of his mouth, “You’re sweet to her, is all.”

“Well.”Cas is interrupted when Emma gives Marta a clumsy kiss, then holds her up for Cas to do the same.He grants the doll a good natured peck to her yarn hair, smiling as Emma giggles. 

“She’s easy to be sweet to.”

Dean hums his agreement, reaching down to stroke Emma’s soft curls.His touch grabs her attention, and she offers Marta to him for a kiss as well.With a laugh Dean lifts Emma and her doll both into his lap, distributing kisses with liberal abandon.Emma squeals, happy with this new source of attention, while Cas returns to his book, albeit with less focus. 

It seems every time Dean looks down Cas is looking back with his quiet warmth, the edges of his eyes crinkled in a smile.Self-conscious but happy all the same, Dean bounces Emma in his lap, a flutter in his belly that he hasn’t enjoyed for a long time.

* * *

 

 

“Good Morning, Emma.”

Emma kicks her feet up and stretches her hands out to Cas, cooing out a few baby sounds before laughing up at him. 

“Shhh,” he reaches down, lifting her out of the cradle to hold her in his arms. Woken earlier than the rooster by his own restless mind, he had dressed and made his way up to the house before Dean could wake him up, as was their current custom.“Your father is still asleep. I couldn’t help but hear you rustling around and, well, I couldn’t sleep either.”

He sways gently, humming tunelessly. Emma had grown even in the short time he had known her; soon she would even outgrow their arms. 

“I hope I get to see the lady you become, Emma,” he whispers, tapping her nose with the pad of his forefinger and watching her smile and cross her eyes in the effort to see him properly, “Your father loves you enough to want the best for you… I know he wants you to know the church, but he’s never going to force you to love something you didn’t.Neither would I.”

_In nomine patre…_ The voice of his childhood priest echoes in his mind, firm in his ideals and inflexible in the application of them. He hadn’t been to a Mass since his induction to University, so steeped in what he had thought was a sin. 

Emma gurgles softly against his shoulder. He pulls her back, looking into her soft green eyes. “What do you say? Should we get breakfast going?”

“Sounds good to me.”

Cas almost jumps, startled by Dean’s voice behind him. He turns around, taking in the full sight of him, somewhat disheveled from sleep with his suspenders still hanging by his side, standing in the entryway to the bedroom. 

“Didn’t mean to startle you, friend.” He pinches lightly at Emma’s cheek, causing her to erupt in giggles. “Or you, Half-pint.”

Dean looks at him for the first time, meeting his eyes and smiling, almost shy in the dim morning light.

“‘Morning,” he says.

He tucks Cas's too-long hair behind his ear, kissing the line of his jaw while Emma plays with his collar in his opposite arm. Cas flushes against Dean’s touch, the heat accompanied by nerves coiling in his stomach. Emma’s eyes won’t always be clouded by infancy; she’ll grow to remember everything she sees. 

Their time is limited, so Cas turns to kiss him full on the mouth. 

The morning is a bustle of activity then, with Dean running out to do the chores quickly while Cas feeds Emma in her everyday clothes so that she’ll be clean in her christening gown. Dean looks put together in his rarely-worn Sunday clothes and tosses Cas one of his second-best shirts, his usual work shirt looking ragged after a week of spring planting. 

The wagon ride to town is quiet, the earth lush and green after another light rain the night before. Cas holds the reigns, Baby’s dependable demeanor easy on his hands while Dean keeps hold of Emma. They’ll go into town like Cas is needed to steer the wagon while Dean holds his girl on the way to the Christening. The unspoken purpose weighs heavy on Cas's shoulder. 

The town looms up in front of them after a few miles, a blight on the otherwise flat prairie. Their trips into town had always been quick, to pick Emma up from Jess or get something at the store; never of a social nature since Cas had been around. He blanches at the thought of the side-eyed looks he’ll get for being at his so-called employer’s daughter’s Christening, even with their story intact.

As if sensing his discomfort, Dean lays a reassuring hand on his knee before they’re in real sight of the town. He smiles, and Cas's nerves melt away.

They pass by the Moore’s store and the Livery before the Church looms into view, its tall steeple the highest point of Ava. Ellen and Jo stand on the steps flanked by Sam and Jess. The church is one of the oldest buildings in town, according to Dean, and it had served as the schoolhouse as well in the days before the more modern brick schoolhouse on the opposite end of the road. 

Sam descends the steps, automatically helping Dean lead the horses to the side of the church. “Well, well, look at this pretty thing,” he says of Emma in her pristine white gown. 

Dean holds Emma out to Jess. “Please take the pretty thing before I get her covered in road dust.”

They all share a laugh at that, and Ellen laments that “White garments have no place on the prairie.”

No one questions Cas's presence, but he worries it’s their politeness that keeps them from showing their skepticism. He looks around the town, at the people hurrying past him to get into the Church. His own group’s voices die away. 

_“Father, forgive me for I have sinned.”_

_The hard board digs he kneels on digs into his knees, and he shifts back and forth, trying to alleviate the pressure. His knapsack leans against his thigh, the weight disconcerting rather than comforting._

_“It has been… three years since my last confession.”_

_Father Miazga nods behind the screen, signaling for him to begin. The sounds of the busy street filter in through the open window across the room, but it is a distorted, otherworldly sound._

_Castiel swallows._

_“I have sinned, Father. I…” his voice catches. He clears it, pushing on. “I have coveted someone, hoping that they could be mine.”_

_The priest sits back in his chair, shifting the light beyond the screen. “Is it a matter of adultery?”_

_Castiel shakes his head, before realizing he would have to speak for the priest to hear him. “No, Father. I had… designs towards this person before they became betrothed to another.”_

_“Have you acted on them since the betrothal?”_

_“Why, no.”_

_The priest chuckles lightly. “It’s not a sin to be heartbroken, my son.”_

_Castiel doesn’t laugh. His hands tremble, and he grips at the rest in front of him to steady them._

_“Is there anything else?” Father Miazga prods._

_Wetness stings behind his eyes. He wipes at them, damp marks appearing on his sleeves._

_“I showed anger towards a friend. Jealous and petty anger.”_

_The priest appears to deliberate this. “Have you asked his forgiveness?”_

_His eyes burn, thickness building up behind every breath. He breathes out hard, staving off the sob at the back of his throat._

_“I can’t. He’s gone.”_

_Cas waits as the Priest adjusts himself in his chair, tears shamelessly running down his face as he deliberates on Cas's penance._

_“In times like these,” the priest starts, “It’s wise to call on our mother in heaven. Say your Hail Marys. I won’t tell you how many, because I think you will need her more than you think.”_

_The priest does the formal absolution then, and Castiel waits in silence to be dismissed. He pulls on his knapsack, the straps light on his shoulders from how little he had chosen to bring._

_He steps out of the confessional, nearly colliding with a skirted someone waiting outside the door._

_His automatic apology catches in his throat. “Hannah.”_

_“Castiel,” she pronounces each syllable of his name carefully. “I was hoping I would find you here.”_

_“My apologies, but I’m going to be late.” He pushes past her, betraying all of his polite upbringing._

_“Late for your train?” she says, her back still turned toward the confessional, hands clasped in front of her against her dress._

_He turns back around, wondering if the tears had made tracks on his face. He must look a sight. Hannah is the picture of decorum, if not for the haunted look in her eyes._

_“Please, Cas,” she pleads._

_His shoulders relax, even against the pull of his bag. He waits._

_Now that she has his his attention, Hannah appears to struggle to find the words. She gestures toward him. “Is that Ezekiel’s bag?”_

_Castiel smiles. “He wanted to look like a proper cowboy at school.”_

_She laughs softly, the sound barely puncturing the air before dissipating. “I can imagine.”_

_An old clock ticks loudly against the wall, each second bringing him closer to being far away, but his feet stay glued to the spot._

_“Hannah–”_

_“You can’t leave,” she interrupts, “What about your Mother? Your sister?”_

_He sighs. “Father left them well taken care of, and Michael is the eldest. They don’t need me.”_

_She shakes her head. “You know what I mean, Cas.”_

_He swallows, fiddling with the straps on his knapsack. “I have a train to catch.” He shoulders past her, trying not to think about how rude it must look to others in the entryway waiting for confession._

_He’s out in the cool and damp Maine air with a swing of the heavy front door, but Hannah remains at his heels._

_“Zeke wouldn’t have wanted you to run,” she calls out from the steps, the wind carrying her voice even over the sound of his shoes pounding against the cobblestone._

“Cas?”

Cas whips around, jolted back to the dusty road of Ava far away from the ever-cold Maine. Dean stands in the doorway, brows knit together.

“Service is about to start,” he says, eyes questioning. 

Castiel smiles, his muscles straining with the effort.

They sit in the back of the small, sunny church, just in case Emma starts getting fussy during the sermon. Dean bounces her on his knee while Reverend Surely preaches about kindness and goodwill, with a crowd-pleasing side of fire and brimstone Cas had come to expect from protestants services. 

When it comes time to sing, Dean balances Emma on one hip and props open a hymn book with his free hand. He knows all the tunes well, and Castiel’s heart trips at the sound of his clear baritone voice. The congregation, bereft of an organ, sings loudly and nearly shakes the foundation with their tuneful rendition of _Bethany_.

Emma behaves herself during the ceremony for the most part, the stuffiness of the church not bothering her as she plays with the hem of her dress. Soon it’s time to sing the last hymn, and then the congregation files out, talking and laughing as they go.

The ladies stay behind, alone with Sam and Jessica’s parents, seated closer to the small altar. They talk amongst themselves as Reverend Surely readies the small basin of water.

“Looks like that’s our cue, Half-pint,” Dean says, bouncing Emma once on his knees to her delight before standing and balancing her against his hip. 

His shoulders tense after a few paces, and he turns back to Cas. 

“Shouldn’t be too long. You uh–mind waiting?”

Cas offers his most reassuring smile. “Of course not.” _Where would I go?_

Dean returns his smile, beaming as he brings Emma up the aisle to the loving crowd. 

The sacrament is short and without much personalization. Sam and Jess promise to be counselors to Emma in her search for holiness, the whole group knowing their wedding date is set for the end of spring planting. Dean stands with his hands folded in front of him as the Reverend takes Emma in hand, sprinkling the blessed water on her forehead to her indignation. She let’s out a healthy cry, and Castiel’s chest tightens. 

His own expression contrasts with the rest of the party; he attempts to twist his face into even a fraction of the joyful visages of Dean and his found-family. Dean returns down the aisle with his disgruntled daughter in tow, her blonde curls a reminder of her absent mother. The aisle might as well be a mile long for how Cas tries to burn the vision into his memory. 

“How ‘bout that, Cas?”

Dean’s voice brings him out of his own mind, grounding him. 

“Wasn’t that nice?” Dean presses on, obviously not noticing his odd behavior. “Little Emma getting her moment and all.”

“Told you so,” Ellen says, coming behind Dean and laying an affectionate hand on his arm, “It’s a rite of passage. No escaping it.” Her and Jo wave their goodbyes, always consumed with work at the Inn.

Sam and Jess linger for a moment. Jess takes her new goddaughter from Dean’s arms, cooing baby sounds at her and rocking her slightly to calm her from the trauma of unexpected water sprinkling. 

“Glad you could make it, Cas,” Sam says, his smile wide. It doesn’t reach his eyes, and Cas fiddles with his suspenders. 

“I’m happy to be here,” he responds, though he’s drowned out by Jess.

“Of course he could make it! Practically part of the family now, aren’t you?” She grins, her well-meaning eyes overshadowed by Sam’s disappearing smile.

Cas wishes for a moment that he could sink into the floor, but luckily Dean’s unaware of his nerves, bidding Jess and Sam goodbye as they all hitch up their wagons and head in different directions. 

They ride back in mostly silence, but Dean whistles tune after tune, smiling and bouncing Emma against his knee as the wheels rattle on towards the homestead. Cas holds the reins tight enough to leave white imprints on his knuckles, itching to touch him, knowing that with one touch Dean would smile mischievously at him and settle his nerves. He doesn’t, only clicks his tongue spur Baby on. 

Cas drops them off at the house, continuing on to the barn to turn Baby out into the barnyard with Betsy and Jet for a drink. The earthy smells of the barn clear his head for the time being, and he heads back up to the house. 

While he toes off his boots by the door Dean stands by the crib, trying to settle an obviously hyper Emma. 

“I promise, sweetheart, if you take a nap you’ll feel much better,” he says, laying Emma down on her stomach for her to only shoot back up again and grab the bars of her crib. 

Cas makes his way over to the kitchen, starting a fire and grabbing a pan and their canister of coffee grounds. He listens intently as he sets the coffee up to brew over the stove. He stirs the grounds, watching as the clear water turns a rich brown. Cas had never cared for coffee until he had left his home, the liquid a welcome energizer against despair. 

He takes the brew from the heat and adds a splash of cold water to help the grounds settle. It’s quiet behind him, save for Dean’s footsteps. 

“I could get out in the fields for a few hours– I think the lord would forgive us, I just know I’ll feel better when the seed is in the ground,” Dean says quietly while Cas pours the coffee into two cups.

“What do you think?” Dean asks, sidling up beside him. His eyes are light, but worry frames his mouth. 

By way of answer, Cas takes his face in his hands and pulls him forward for a long kiss. He opens their mouths almost immediately, pushing against him to feel the line of his body match up with his own. Dean sighs against him, relaxing and locking his arms around Cas's neck to pull him closer. 

It’s over too fast, and Dean pulls back with a question on his face. 

“What’d I do to deserve that?” he asks playfully. 

Cas tries to return the smile, hoping it doesn’t look too much like a grimace. “Don’t go back out to work tonight.”

Dean’s smile disappears, and he nods. “Ok. Sounds good to me.”

Cas pulls him back in, kissing him until their coffee gets cold. 

* * *

 

 

It’s the first week of April when Dean receives a surprise Sunday caller.

“Are you sure about this?” Dean checks for the final time as Jess tucks Emma’s bottle into a small satchel along with a few clean diapers, “Sunday is supposed to be your day off.”

“It’ll be good for her,” Jess says for at least the third time, “The ladies and I are going to quilt and gossip and talk wedding things, and Emma will get to spend time with some other babies. Besides, you haven’t had a real day of rest in months.You and Cas can go chop wood, or whatever it is men do for fun these days.”

Cas chooses that moment to make his morning appearance, disheveled with sleep as always but at least dressed, thank god.Dean takes the opportunity to fish Emma’s bonnet out from under her crib, hiding the blush heating his cheeks while Jess and Cas say their good mornings.Emma, standing up all by herself at the edge of her crib and very proud of that fact, babbles at him happily as he ties the green bonnet under her chin.

“What’s going on?” Cas enquires when Dean stands back up, squinting at Jess in confusion as he deposits the full milk bucket on its shelf near the stove.

“Jessica is absconding with my first born,” Dean explains cheerfully.Castiel, bless his heart, actually looks concerned, and Jess throws up her hands.

“Men,” She declares, “Honestly.This is why she’s coming to town for the day.Emma needs to spend some time around womenfolk or she’ll never get her head on straight.”

“Alright, alright, be gone with ya,” Dean orders, “And you better have her back before supper, hear?”

“After supper,” Jess corrects him loftily, “Andrea is making lamb and I’m bringing you both a plate, so don’t cook.”

Dean makes a show of grumbling but he kisses Emma fondly before depositing her in Jess’ arms.

“Have fun, Half-pint,” he murmurs. 

“Bahbaba.”

“That’s right,” Dean agrees, then kisses his future sister-in-law on the cheek as well, “Thanks, Jess.”

“Don’t mention it,” Jess demurs, “It’s good practice for later.”

Jess turns a pretty pink when she realizes what she just said in front of two men not her fiancé, so Dean spares her any further conversation and in no time he’s waving at her buggy disappearing down the dirt road, bound for town.

Cas meets him at the door with a tin cup full of thick black coffee.

“Hardly a year old and already running off to socials,” Dean declares, shaking his head with an air of despondency.Castiel rolls his eyes with a rueful grin.

“Come on,” he rumbles, slapping a kiss on Dean’s temple, “We’ve got the farm to ourselves.I’m making eggs.” 

A mess of scrambled eggs and toast leads to a trip to the henhouse to replenish their supply, which somehow leads to Dean pinned to the nearest side of the barn, getting kissed to within an inch of his life.Ever since Emma’s christening a few weeks back Cas has seemed...hungrier, quicker to push Dean against the closest wall and steal a kiss, and slower to let him go when they say goodnight at the back door.Not that Dean is complaining, mind.As the days grow longer, the specter of Lydia Winchester grows fainter and fainter, while Cas is warm flesh and blood in Dean’s arms, his touch insistent and his kisses tender.

Cas nips at the tender skin under his jaw and Dean gasps, gripping tight to Cas's hips.He can’t help but grin as lightning zings down his spine. 

Cas smiles too, tilting his head curiously.“What is it?”

“Nothin’,” Dean hums, tracing his fingers under the hem of Cas's untucked shirt, “Just, what a way to spend the Sabbath, huh?”

Dean is surprised when Castiel withdraws his touch, looking puzzled.“What?”

“I didn’t mean...it was just a joke, Cas,” Dean says, with a weak laugh, “You know, sinning on the Lord’s day.” 

Castiel’s expression turns cloudy.“Do you really think what’s between us is a sin?”

“I.”Dean thinks of his mother’s Bible.“I don’t know.Isn’t that what they say?”

The furrow between Cas's eyes lessens.He drags one hand through Dean’s hair then cups his jaw.Cas presses a kiss to his mouth and Dean shivers with the heat of it. 

“Dean.” Cas tips their foreheads together.“Do I _feel_ like a sin?”

Wordless, Dean shakes his head.Cas rewards him with another kiss, this one deeper.It sets his heart racing and his groin stirring.A soft sound of pleasure escapes his lips and Dean feels his face heating as his eyes flutter closed.This only seems to increase Cas's satisfaction.He presses their bodies closer together and Dean shudders to feel Cas's arousal pressing against his trousers. 

“What do I feel like?” Cas asks against his mouth.

Dean’s first thoughts are lustful, but he opens his eyes to meet Cas's blue gaze and coarse words die on his tongue.They kiss again.Cas closes his eyes this time and Dean stares at the sweep of his dark lashes against his sun tanned skin.He brushes his fingers over the delicate crow’s feet at the corner of Cas's eyes, evidence of a hidden smile as they trade kisses against the barn door.

“Peace,” Dean sighs, when they part for breath.He buries his face in Cas's neck.“God, Cas, you feel like peace.”

Castiel nuzzles at his cheek before guiding his chin back up and kissing him, hard.His hand drags down Dean’s spine, palming over his ass and digging his fingers into the meat of Dean’s thigh.When they part his eyes are dark and both their breaths are coming heavy.

“Meet me in the cellar,” Cas rumbles, “Two minutes.” 

Dean can only nod, and watch as Castiel disappears into the house with their forgotten basket of eggs.Shaking off the cobwebs, Dean slaps his hat back on his head and makes for the wooden doors of the storm cellar.

It’s another world underground, dark and cool.Dean’s breath feels too loud in the silent burrow, his footsteps echoing in the close space.Their spare kerosene lamp is still out here from the storm last fall, and the older quilt they had brought out for Emma’s sake.Dean lights the lamp and the space is thrown into warm flickering light and cool inky shadows.

“Dean?”The cellar door opens, letting in a harsh shard of daylight before Cas slips in through the gap and their enclosed once more in the half darkness. 

“I’m here,” Dean replies, “I was checking for spiders, but I guess we’re going to luck out.It’s just us and the preserves down here.”

Cas smiles wide and pulls Dean into a kiss.Their breath is louder down here; their touch hotter in the cool air.Dean hums into the kiss, warming up again after their pause outside.When Cas pulls him closer Dean can feel his matching hardness pressed to his thigh. 

“What did you need from the house?” Dean asks distractedly, nosing at the delicate skin below Cas's jaw. 

“This.”Castiel draws Dean’s chin up, looking him in the eye as he presses a familiar glass jar into Dean’s grip.

Cas closes Dean’s hands around the jar of vaseline and his breath catches.

“Oh.”

“You know what it’s for?”

“It...uh, it ain’t that hard to put together,” Dean replies, all too aware of the blush heating his cheeks.Cas's smile is gentle and understanding as he drops a kiss on Dean’s lips.

“I want us to have this,” Castiel murmurs, pulling him close, “I want this with you.”

This...it isn’t just fooling around.He’s heard tell, what it takes for two men to lie together, and it takes more than the few kisses and soft touches it takes to get a woman wet.This takes time, and trust.When Dean hesitates Cas's face falls and he starts to turn in on himself and that’s what steels his resolve more than anything else.Dean trusts Cas.He wants to _know_ Cas, and he wants Cas to know him, in every way that matters.This matters.It’s plain from the tremble in Castiel’s hands where they press to Dean’s jaw just how much. 

“I...I want it too,” Dean says, tipping their foreheads together.Cas's eyes light up, his breath catching against Dean’s lips.It sets a fair strand of desire curling in Dean’s belly. “Show me how?”

They wind up spread out on the earthen floor, Castiel pressing him into the faded wildflower quilt they’d tossed down to cushion them against the cool dirt.It’s slim padding, but Dean’s mattress ain’t exactly fit for the Kansas City Hotel, and Cas's mouth on his bare skin is more than enough to distract from the points of pressure against his spine that will likely leave him stiff in the morning.

They unwrap each other, working open buttons and peeling back layers like paper off a long awaited package, but with the tremor of those who know the bounty could still be snatched from their eager fingers.They kick away their boots and rough trousers, but their shirts and long johns end up tangled around them like a nest.Dean welcomes Cas's kisses with the shirt Lydia made him cushioned under his head.His wife isn’t here.Cas is.

Castiel is golden, his profile sharp in the glow of the lamp and his edges bleeding out into the shadows, surrounding Dean.Cleaving to him.So much of his warm, smooth skin on display for Dean to see and touch.

“You’re so beautiful,” Dean murmurs, words escaping his lips before his brain can stop them.Cas just smiles.

“I could say the same of you,” he says, laying a kiss against Dean’s breastbone with a reverence that makes Dean want to cover his unworthy self, “And more.”

They’ve never done this before, shared a state of total nakedness.Dean understands now, why Cas brought them down below the earth despite the cool air.They’re safe here, like rabbits in a warren.Dark and close, cloistered away from rules and opinion and marriage vows.Even when Cas pops the lid from the vaseline Dean feels secure, protected by the close walls and Cas's greater experience. 

Castiel warms the greasy slick between his fingers before leaning down to kiss Dean again.Dean parts his lips, eager, and is lost in the heat of their joined mouths when Castiel slips his hand between Dean’s thighs and touches him, his index finger applying pressure where Dean has never been touched before. 

Carefully, Castiel presses deeper, and a vulnerable sound escapes Dean’s lips.It’s not a painful touch, but it’s...intrusive.Dean’s never felt anything like it.

“Alright?”

“Right strange,” Dean admits, then shivers, “Don’t stop.”

It takes...more time, than Dean was expecting.Even once the oddness of the feeling starts to veer into the pleasant Dean can’t help noticing how careful Castiel is with him, how patient and slow he is in slipping a second finger past Dean’s rim. 

“Does it always take this long?” Dean asks with a wince.The stretch is more uncomfortable now, but also something else.Something Dean could stand to take more of. 

“It’s your first time,” Castiel explains, kissing at Dean’s throat, “So I’m perhaps being a little cautious.But in general, yes.Believe me, slow is better.”

“How in the hell did you get away with this in boarding school?” Dean has to wonder.Cas grins, somewhat ruefully.

“I won’t pretend it was more than an occasional indulgence,” he admits, “It takes patience and discretion, neither of which are virtues well known to young men.”Dean gives a strained laugh, which turns into a wanton sound when Castiel twists his fingers in a certain way.

“It’s- _ah_ -it’s...good,” Dean says, almost surprised, “I thought it would be...I don’t know, something for you?Something I could give you, but it’s _so much_ and I-”

“You like it,” Cas guesses, scissoring his fingers again and brushing against something that makes Dean shudder.He nods, helpless.“I like it too.Giving or taking.They both bring pleasure, in different ways.”

“Yeah.” Dean’s voice cracks when Castiel adds his third finger, the stretch almost overwhelming, even with the generous application of vaseline.Cas takes his time, even though his desire is hanging flushed and evident between his legs.He kisses Dean, with swirling presses of his tongue that make Dean’s head spin, even as the fingers working him open make him pant and blush.

There comes a point when _too much_ becomes _not enough_ and Cas looks like he can feel it just as keenly as Dean.He pulls his fingers from the tight slickness between Dean’s legs and he drags his hand over his erection, long smooth tugs that pause only to swipe more vaseline from the small jar.He groans, and Dean feels it down to his center. Castiel’s want is vibrating in his very bones.

Castiel rolls on top of him, kissing him and wrapping Dean’s thighs around his waist.He rocks their arousals together, the slide hot and slick with vaseline and their own fluids.Cas slips behind Dean’s cock, dragging into the crease of him to Dean’s entrance, made open and waiting by Castiel’s fingers.The head of Cas's cock catches against his rim and Dean jumps, despite the anticipation thrumming through his veins. 

Dean knows what’s about to happen. He wants it—he’s _desperate_ for it, but still—

“Cas,” he breathes. 

In an instant Cas halts, rising up and cupping the back of Dean’s head with slick and sticky fingers.Dean feels so open and vulnerable, like a raw nerve.He thinks back inexplicably to his wedding night, to the mantra he’d repeated over and over lying between Lydia’s thighs and now with his position reversed he knows he doesn’t need to ask but the words slip through his lips all the same— 

“Just...be gentle with me?” he pleads, voice small.

Castiel’s eyes go soft, and he presses a lingering kiss to Dean’s brow.

“I could never offer you anything less,” he vows. 

They kiss again, for a little while, until Dean offers Cas a shaky nod and he leans back, curls Dean’s thighs forward and lines himself up.There’s pressure, and a burning stretch-

“ _Mater Dei_ ,” Cas curses lowly as he fills Dean, pushing forward impossibly slow.Dean half fears he may split into two, being taken in a way he’s never experienced.They pause frequently, Dean panting as Castiel whispers how good he feels.How hot and tight Dean is around him.By the time Castiel is seated fully Dean is overwhelmed.Cas is in him and it hurts but it’s so _good_. “ _Cas-”_

“I have you, Dean,” Cas promises, breath hot and wet against Dean’s collarbone, “I’ve got you.”

“You have me,” Dean repeats, and why is that enough to bring tears to his eyes?

“Are you alright?” 

“Yeah-yes, I think so,” Dean shifts, and the ache is edged with a deeper, headier sensation, “You should move, I think.Slow.”

Castiel starts with little more than a shallow rocking of his hips, and that is more than enough to knock the air from Dean’s lungs for a good minute.

“How does it feel?” he asks when he can get his breath back.Cas slips out of him further before pushing in again, slow and smooth.He buries his face in the crook of Dean’s neck, panting.

“Incredible,” Cas replies, “You fit me... _oh..._ so perfectly, Dean.So hot, inside, and tight.” 

“Is it-” Dean’s voice breaks as Cas moves inside him again, building to a less careful rhythm. “Is it like being with a woman?”

Cas laughs, breathless.“I wouldn’t know.”

He punctuates his words with a sharp thrust, and that’s the last of Dean’s questions.He digs his heels into the small of Cas's back, urging him deeper, and Castiel obeys, sweat gathering at his brow. 

“Cas,” Dean pleads, “Cas, _more._ I need you—”

“You’re so good,” Cas moans, cradling Dean’s ribs as he thrusts helplessly, “You’re such a good man.I don’t deserve—”

“You do,” Dean pants, fingers tangled in Cas's thick hair, “You deserve everything.All of me.Have _all_ of me _,_ Castiel—”

Castiel’s thrusts turn hard and fast, and Dean shudders with the overwhelming sensation.

“Yes,” Castiel rasps, “Take it.Tell me how good it is.”

“Oh _god_ —” Dean has never known true ecstasy until this moment.Pleasure on the edge of pain that pushes him beyond his body.With Castiel moving inside him speaking in tongues is no longer a mystery, nor heavenly visions.Splash him with holy water and call him a true believer, amen and hallelujah.

“Cas,” Dean sobs, “It’s so good.It’s so much—”

“I know,” Castiel gasps.He wraps a hand around Dean’s cock and that’s heaven, his warm grip made slick by sweat and the pearly fluid dripping from the head of his cock while Cas thrusts against that spot inside that makes Dean see stars. 

“I think I’m gonna—” 

“Me too,” Cas promises him, a fine line of sweat at his brow, “It’s been a long time.I won’t be lasting.”

Assured by Cas's words Dean lets his eyes fall closed and chases his own pleasure.He lays his own hand over Cas's on his cock, encouraging him to squeeze just a little tighter, and turn his wrist at the head.After a few strokes, it’s perfect.Dean opens his eyes, one hand still in Cas's hair, and comes with a shaky sigh. 

Castiel takes his mouth, kissing him urgently before he stills inside him, reaching his own climax with a shudder, hand still working Dean’s cock until the last tremors of ecstasy have left them both.Cas gives a few final, shallow thrusts, his movement easier with the slickness of his release easing the way.Eventually they still, the close space quiet but for the labor of their breath after their exertion.

“Wow,” Dean exhales at last. 

Cas laughs, the sound deep and warm.He kisses Dean, light and gentle.

“‘Wow’ is right,” he agrees, leaning their foreheads together.“Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me,” Dean says, still reeling, “Jesus.”

“Don’t take the Lord’s name in vain,” Cas chides, kissing Dean’s nose.

“Right, like you weren’t swearing up and down in Latin a minute ago,” Dean teases back, “Besides, when it comes to sinning I think we have bigger fish to fry.”

Cas frowns, and Dean realizes he’s stepped in it again with the religion topic.His cock soft, Cas withdraws from Dean’s body, and okay, Dean won’t lie, _that_ was not the most enjoyable sensation he’s ever experienced.Castiel is still focused on their theological discussion apparently, because he doesn’t seem to notice Dean’s temporary discomfort, or he knew to expect it and, hey, a little warning would have been nice.

“We do not lead sinful lives, Dean.” Cas looks genuinely confused.Dean gestures broadly to the tableau they have arranged themselves in, the aftermath of their relations still sticky on their legs and bellies with the mussed quilt barely covering their nakedness.

“If a life of sin was what I desired I could have planted myself out back of any number of taverns and waited,” Cas informs him frankly, “There would be plenty of anonymous partners to sate my proclivities, many even willing to pay for my discretion and a willing body.But those...connections...there is nothing to them but lust.Carnality.That to me is sinful, more so than the physical realities of the connection itself.” 

Castiel traces his thumb along the curve of Dean’s jaw.

“What transpired between us just now was as sacred to me as the union of a husband and wife,” Cas murmurs, a small furrow appearing between his brows, “If you don’t feel the same, please tell me now.”

“I do,” Dean replies, flushing when he realizes the pattern of his words, “I feel the same, I mean.And I have some first-hand experience with that particular union, so, you know…”

Castiel smiles, humor wrinkling the corners of his eyes, and Dean steals a taste of that joy from Cas's lips.Their kisses taper off as their heart rates settle and the coolness of the cellar becomes more apparent against their bare skin.With the handkerchief in Dean’s trouser pocket he wipes the worst of the stickiness from his belly and between his thighs, another discomforting sensation.After, Cas pulls them back together, draping the quilt more carefully over their bare bodies.Dean tucks his head under Cas's chin and enjoys their shared warmth for a few silent moments.

“It’s hard though,” Dean murmurs, listening to the beat of Cas's heart, “I mean, I was taught a certain way, you know, of what is and ain’t a godly way to live.I don’t know how to just turn all that off.”

Cas laughs softly.“Believe me,” he replies, “I understand how you feel.”

“Doesn’t seem to put you off though,” Dean says, “‘Least, I hear you counting your Ave Marias often enough.How do you know anybody up there wants to listen?” 

“I can’t speak to the will of the Almighty,” Cas muses, “My devotions bring me peace, just as a hard day’s work brings satisfaction, or a lover brings joy.”

Cas pets his fingers through Dean’s hair when he says that, and Dean kisses the nearest patch of skin to his lips, cheeks warm.“What do you pray for?” he asks, counting Cas ribs with his fingertips.

“The same things anybody prays for, I assume,” Castiel answers, shrugging, “Good health, rain, forgiveness for my shortcomings.”

Dean has never been the praying kind.He knows the words his Ma taught him, kneeling at the foot of his bed, or his Pa, heads bowed and hands joined at the dinner table, but he’d never felt anything in those moments beyond the aching in his knees or the crick in his neck.Cas must get something out of all that Latin though, given the amount of it that passes his lips on a daily basis.The click of rosary beads has become one of the constants of Dean’s life.

“I pray for Emma,” Cas reveals, “I pray for her to find closeness to her Mother in heaven, to guide her when her earthly mother’s absence becomes a burden.”

Dean swallows, throat tight. 

“I know your own church won’t do the same,” Castiel continues, “The Protestant faith discourages devotions to the Blessed Mother.”

“I suppose they do,” Dean agrees. 

“No intercession.Only Fear of the Lord,” Cas muses, eyes mournful, “It all seems...lonely, to a girl without a mother, or a man without a family.”

Dean wants to disagree with Castiel’s label for himself.Cas has a living family, at least a sister who he still mentions in conversation now and again without realizing her name has passed his lips.If their relationship was anything then like Dean and Sam’s is now, Dean has no doubt Anna would welcome Castiel reaching out, even with the years that have passed in silence.But that isn’t his business to interfere in. 

Dean wants to reveal that he already considers Cas _his_ family, his partner in work and passion and raising Emma.

But the words stick in his throat.Dean isn’t free to offer those words.Not yet.

“So I pray,” Castiel concludes, when Dean remains silent. 

Too many unsaid promises caught between his teeth, Dean simply leans up on one elbow to give Cas a long, slow kiss.

“C’mon,” Dean says, tucking a strand of hair behind Cas's ear, “Let's get the wash basin from the barn.We can have a good long soak before the womenfolk get back.”

Cas still has an edge of melancholy to his gaze, but they pull on their trousers and he follows Dean back into the sunlight willingly enough.

 

* * *

“Cas, if you don’t get dressed we’re going to be late,” Dean calls.He’s wearing his only suit (the one he was married in), balancing a clean and decorated Emma on his hip in the main room while Cas gets ready in the bedroom.He’s already got his gift for the soon-to-be newlyweds tucked away in the front seat of the buggy, not that it takes up too much space anyway.

“Sorry,” Dean hears from behind the curtain, “There was a scuff on one of my boots.” 

“I’m sure it’s fine,” Dean says, “Everyone’s going to be looking at the bride anywa-”

Dean’s words die on his tongue as Cas emerges from the bedroom in John Winchester’s second best suit.He hadn’t thought, offering Castiel the brown jacket, vest, and trousers, only wanting to prevent Cas being embarrassed wearing work clothes to Sam and Jess’ wedding.The cut of the sack coat is admittedly a few years out of style, but the fit, and the color...

“The jacket is a little big,” Cas admits, shifting awkwardly. 

“A little,” Dean agrees, mouth dry, “It’s fine, though.It’s...good.”

“You think so?” 

“Yeah.” Dean palms over the solid line of Cas's waist, coarse material under his fingers that until now he had only ever associated with his father’s stern Sunday church presence. 

“Dean.”

“Hm?” 

“We’re going to be late?” 

Dean starts, and finds Cas staring at him, amused.Dean coughs, avoiding Cas sparkling blue gaze as his cheeks heat.

“Right,” he agrees, passing Emma to Castiel's grip, “I'll get the buggy.Jody and Donna are waitin’ on us.”

Being the charitable neighbor that he is, Dean had offered the Mills a shared buggy ride to the church when he’d last seen them in town.Both sisters are waiting out front when their farmhouse comes in sight.

Jody, too practical to throw away a perfectly good dress despite it being the same mourning gray she wore after her husband’s passing, nonetheless looks cheerful as they pull up to the whitewashed house.A bright blue sash matches Donna’s more fashionable Sunday best, and both women have a spray of fresh wild wildflowers pinned to their bonnets.

“Good morning, ladies,” Dean calls as he hops down from the high seat to offer his assistance, “A fine day for a wedding, wouldn’t you say?”

“As good a day as any,” Jody agrees, “Jessica hasn’t come to her senses yet, then?”

“Not that I’ve heard,” Dean says, chuckling, “Either way it’s too late to cancel the party, so we may as well make the trip to town.” 

“That’s the spirit,” Donna chirps.Balancing Emma on one knee Cas helps her into the buggy.

“I feel naked, going to a social without a pie in my hands,” Donna laughs as she settles into the back seat, “But I suppose that’s how it is with weddings.We wouldn’t want to step on Mrs. Moore’s toes.”

“No,” Dean agrees, “I’m sure Sam’s future in-laws have the luncheon planned down to the last sprig of parsley.”

Jody hands Donna their gift for the newlyweds, a beribboned basket which Jody explains is filled with envelopes containing carefully harvested seeds from their herb garden.With the instructions inscribed on each packet Jess will be able to grow all her own seasonings for her cooking, which Dean reckons is a thoughtful gift for a new bride setting up her house. 

“No Owen?” Dean checks, when the young man doesn’t appear.Jody shakes her head, accepting Dean’s assistance up onto the buggy seat.

“We had a late calf born last week,” she explains, “He’s going to stay behind and keep an eye on them, just in case.”

“And miss out on being shoe horned into his Sunday best?” Dean says, grinning, “I’m sure he’s mighty disappointed.”

“We’re turning a blind eye just this once,” Jody confides with a wink, “A wedding ain’t exactly thrilling for a boy his age.”

“Don’t let her fool you,” Donna pipes up from beside Cas in the back seat, “Jody-o here is just relieved Owen isn’t looking to be courtin’ yet himself.”

“He’s a little young,” Cas comments uncertainly, “Isn’t he?”

Donna hums.“You’d be surprised,” she says, “‘Sole heir to the Mills estate’ makes for a very eligible bachelor.”

It’s clearly a familiar exchange of teasing between the two sisters, as Jody rolls her eyes.“‘The Mills Estate’,” she repeats, shaking her head, “Let me keep my boy until his voice drops, at least.By the sound of him lately I’d say we’ve got a few years yet.”

“I remember being his age,” Cas says, grinning, “I sang soprano in my church choir until I was fourteen.”

Announced in his gravelly baritone Cas's statement gets a laugh from the ladies, and they set off for town in high spirits, ready to celebrate Sam and Jess’ marriage.

The church ceremony itself will be a simple affair, with family and close neighbors.There’s a fresh vase of wildflowers on the altar when Dean and Cas step inside, but not much else for decoration.Jessica’s mother will have the chance to impress after the wedding itself, when the Moores host lunch at their townhouse.

Sam is greeting his guests as they come in the door, looking nervous as hell but handsome enough in his dark green suit.He’s standing next to one of the benches usually used for seating where a few wedding gifts have been left for the happy couple.He spots Dean coming in and near collapses in relief, though he gives a polite welcome to Donna and Jody before Dean reaches him. 

“You’re here.”

“Yeah, yeah, sorry we’re late. _Somebody_ couldn’t get a scuff out of their boot.”Dean nudges Cas, who rolls his eyes.

“Congratulations, Sam,” he offers, handing Sam a small envelope, “It’s not much, but I hope it serves a help to you and Miss Moore in your new life together.”

“Uh, thanks, Castiel.”Sam shakes Cas's hand, a little stiff before Cas offers to take Emma from Dean.

“I’m sure Mrs. Mills won’t mind keeping an eye on her for a moment,” he says, “You have best man duties to perform.”

“Thanks, Cas.”

“Alright,” Dean says once he sees Cas settled in next to Jody and Donna, “Gifts first.”

Sam’s brow furrows when Dean hands him the thick envelope of legal papers, but when he slips open the first page his eyes go wide. 

“Dean…”

“Two acres, on the close end to town,” Dean explains, “It’s yours if you want it, Sammy.We just have to file the papers come Monday.”

“You...you don’t need it?” Sam asks, “For crops?”

“Nah, it’s a little rocky anyway,” Dean says, “It’s a pain in the ass to plough, but I figured it’d be perfect for a house.”

“We almost have enough saved to build,” Sam reveals, “But the town is so settled, there isn’t a plot for sale within thirty miles.”

“I figured as much,” Dean guesses, clapping Sam and on the shoulder, “So you two keep saving, and when the time comes just say the word and you’ll have an extra set of hands for the labor.”

“Thanks, Dean.This really means a lot.”

“Don’t think on it.”Dean pulls the second part of his gift from his suit pocket.“And this is for Jess.”

Dean wrapped it in a clean scrap of calico, but when Sam gasps Dean knows he recognizes their mother’s porcelain angel.It’s stood in it’s place of honor on the mantel since the day Mary Winchester first put it there, not long after Dean was born, but Dean figures it’s time it went to the next generation of Winchester women.

“Dean, that’s yours.It’s part of the house.” _It’s part of Ma’s things, which you haven’t touched since she died_ , goes unsaid.It was hard, Dean is not afraid to admit, pulling the small china angel from the shelf, but Cas is wearing John’s suit here today, and Dean can give away one of his mother’s keepsakes to his soon-to-be sister.

“Ma would have wanted her to have it,” Dean says, setting the figurine near the back of the gift table.Jess would know it when she and Sam took stock their gifts later.“We can make a tradition of it.”

“Then it should be Emma’s,” Sam insists, “You were married first.By all rights it’s Lydia’s—”

“Lydia doesn’t care.”It’s the first time such a thought has actually passed his lips, but it’s been on his mind since the thaw.If Dean ever sees her again, Lydia Winchester likely won’t be playing the repentant wife at his doorstep.

“The truth is,” Dean admits, “I made the wrong choice.John wanted grandkids so I ran headlong into courting and got down on one knee for the first girl with a pretty face who looked like she’d say yes.”

“You didn’t know—”

“I swept Lydia off her feet,” Dean cuts him off, “Without looking too closely at whether or not she was really cut out for the life, and now I’m living with the consequences.It’s not like you and Jess.”

Dean remembers when Jessica Moore first started following Sam around the school yard, still in pigtails with grass stains on the knees of her store-bought dress.He also remembers Sam’s first visit home from school in Kansas City, casually dropping the first “When Jess and I get married…” at the dinner table.

“You and Jess have dreams together,” Dean continues, “Plans that go beyond getting to the altar.You love each other, and lord knows Jess has acted as a sister to me longer than Lydia ever acted as a wife.”

Eyes bright, Sam yanks Dean into a bone crushing hug.

“I’m happy to see you two together,” Dean promises, “And I want Jessica to know she’s family.Always has been.”

Sam gives a suspiciously wet sniff, and Dean has to blink back a few tears himself. His baby brother is growing up.

“Plus I need the two of you to start making babies ASAP,” Dean jokes, once Sam lets him go, “Or I’m gonna be an old man still trying to work one hundred and sixty acres of land with nobody but Cas to help me.So there’s no time for cold feet, little brother.”

“As if,” Sam replies, “I’m only here by Jess’ good graces.”

“Speakin’ a babies, do we need to have a talk?” Dean asks, waggling his eyebrows just to watch Sam turn red, “Brother to unmarried brother?”

“Oh my god, Dean, _no_ ,” he sputters, shoving Dean away.

“‘Cause there’s nothin’ to be ashamed of, still being innocent to the ways of husbands and wives—” 

“Time to get married!” Sam announces, covering his ears with his giant hands while Dean cackles, “No more talking!” 

“I’m glad you’re eager.”Sam jumps and spins to find Jessica has stepped into the church with her mother.She does look lovely, her hair done up in curls and a bouquet of white flowers in her hands.Sam is near struck dumb.

“Jess,” he stammers, “You look…”

"You don't look too bad yourself."

Jess allows Dean to give her a chaste kiss on the cheek and offer his congratulations before she takes Sam's arm. 

"Walk your fiancée into church one last time?"

Sam covers Jess’ hand with his own, nerves finally giving way to happiness.

“Let’s go.”

 

* * *

Reverend Shurley nervously fiddles with his notes before the service as everyone finds their seats. Sam and Jess sit in the front pew and Jess looks the epitome of a young bride in a dress of pale pink muslin as she smiles nervously at guests filling in around her. Cas sits with Dean behind them until the reverend signals for him to stand up with Sam. Emma fusses a little when he passes her to Cas, but she settles in his lap when he gives her a finger to squeeze as hard as she is capable.

Jody leans over to him, Donna and her having sat down next to him like good neighbors, as Dean walks up the aisle.

“Do you want me to take her?” she whispers.

Cas smiles, shaking his head slightly as he bounces Emma up and down on his knee. Jody frowns in the corner of his vision. He shifts in seat while the reverend reads Corinthians 13. 

Sam and Jess say their vows next, hands clasped together as they repeat the words. Jess’s parents stand proudly to the side, beaming, and Dean represents Sam’s family. Cas meets his eyes just as Jess says “I will,” the charge of his gaze intense across the room. It sends a jolt through Cas's chest, and he turns away as the reverend announces Mr. and Mrs. Samuel Winchester. The guests give a hearty clap, and Cas stands with Emma against his hip, slapping a smile on his face and Jess and Sam walk back down the aisle, smiling at each other along the way. 

Jess’s parents invite the guests over to their home for a party, and Cas files out with Donna and Jody, following the crowds as they laugh and shout their congratulations. Outside a hazy afternoon has settled over the day, the low sun brightening the opaque cover of clouds. 

Dean jogs back to find him, taking Emma and spinning her around above their heads. 

“How’d you like your first wedding ceremony, Half-pint?” He says to her, winking saucily to Cas, “Hopefully not too much, you’re not gonna be up there for a very long time.”

“Let her speak for herself, Old Coot.” Jody jokes while Donna coos over Emma in Dean’s arms.

“Trust me, Mills,” Dean retorts, “She’s been doing plenty of speaking, but God knows it’s in another language still.”

They all share a good laugh, and even Cas's cheeks pull his mouth into a smile at the sight of Dean’s oldest friends and neighbors finally getting to visit after the long winter. 

Jody taps Cas's sleeve, grinning up at him. “Escort a lady to the party?”

“I would be happy to.” He takes her arms and they continue up the street, watching the whole of the wedding guests whoop and holler their congratulations in one of the few moments of impropriety acceptable in this society. 

The Moores live in one of the nicest homes in Ava, situated right next to their General Store. One of the few buildings in town with a Victorian style porch and stylish woodwork stained a deep rich brown. 

“Yeah, well, Sam’s a Winchester so he’d never admit it,” Dean had said one night as they discussed the upcoming nuptials over dinner, “But he’s marrying into one of the only families in Ava with an honest-to-God fortune.”

Cas swallows hard as they mount the steps, the creaking wood and rocking chairs filled with joyous wedding guests so different and yet so similar to the damp stoop of his childhood home that gave way to a large porch his father had worked day and night to be able to afford.

He jumps when Jody lays her other hand upon his arm. 

“I better get into the kitchen to help before I’m ridiculed by the other ladies,” she says, smile disappearing when she sees his expression, “Something jump up and bite you?”

He laughs. “No. Just thinking.”

“Don’t think too much or you’ll set all this shiny furniture on fire,” she says, before her eyes settle into a kind look, “I saw Dean go into the parlor.”

Cas bids his goodbyes, secretly grateful to Jody for not prying despite their obviously strange arrangement. 

He walks along the wall towards the entrance that Jody had gestured at as the parlor. Mrs. Moore breezes by him without a glance as she carries a carved glass punch bowl through the doorway. He hears Dean laugh at an unheard joke, his voice and an unfamiliar guest carrying above the rest. Cas is about to enter when he hears his name spoken.

“Cas is helping out with the spring planting,” Dean says, obviously making an effort to sound flippant.

“Was he your same hand from the harvest? Did he make it back these parts again?”

“Well, he stayed pretty close, did some odd work for me here and there.”

The other speaker makes an indistinguishable noise, followed by an unheard question. There’s a pause, and Dean continues quietly. 

“His family is all back east, and a lack of wholesome social opportunities isn’t good for a man’s soul...”

Cas retreats back, heading through a narrow hallway next to the stairs. He sits down on a lower step, hanging his head in his hands, restless even as the party continues on in the rooms behind him, muffled but still audible. 

“Someone put something in your punch?”

He lifts his head, and Jody’s sister Donna stands in front of him, hands resting on her hips. She has a kind and smiling face, but truth be told Castiel has never spoken to her directly. 

He laughs, a short exhale, “I confess I haven’t had any yet.”

“Well, you better hurry up, this is a thirsty crowd!”

He smiles again, her open expression and clipped northern accent a welcome refreshment from the typical Midwestern drawl. 

“Dean said you’re from Dakota Territory?” he asks, folding his hands in front of him. 

“Well,” she starts turning so her back is to the wall, leaning comfortably, “I don’t think anyone my age is _from_ Dakota Territory, truly. I come from back east, near Boston. Like yourself, or so I’m told.”

“Maine,” he agrees.

She nods. “Ah.” She leans in, a mischievous smile lifting up the corner of her mouth, “Between you and me, I’m still suspicious of all this sun.”

He laughs again. “I feel the same way.”

Cas can see the touches of a Lady from back east now that she has told him her origins; the soft blonde hair pulled into a fashionable bun like Hannah had worn the day he had left, and an Italian cameo pinned to her collar at her throat. Her dress, while faded from sun and washing, is tailored perfectly to her round arms and hips. 

The words tumble out of his mouth before his mind can catch up. 

“How did we end up here?”

He’s expecting a laugh from her, being a good-natured woman who naturally wants to put people at ease, but instead he’s only awarded with a small smile. 

“Same reason anyone does anything, for me at least. I care for another person, and that makes me want to stay close by to them.”

Dean’s face flashes before his eyes, followed closely by Emma’s. They would not exist to him if he had simply waited until another stop to the next tiny town on the prairie.

“And I reckon, as the locals say,” Donna continues, “That you feel the same way in your circumstances.”

Cas's eyes widen, a lump rising in his throat as he tries to remember the words. To deny, to get out, to get a train ticket and leave before he ruins Dean’s life for good– 

“Slow down, Castiel,” Donna says, and he doesn’t know when he had gotten up, but Donna lays a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

“Donna, please understand, you can’t–”

“Hush.” She sounds remarkably like Jody in that instant. “I didn’t want to scare you. I want to let you know you aren’t alone on this wide and lonesome prairie.”

Slowly, he relaxes. “You– ?”

She stands up on her tiptoes, brushing off his shoulders. “You didn’t really think Jody and I were sisters, did you?”

“I didn’t think–with women–”

Donna rolls her eyes. “I can tell you’re educated, Castiel, but all the school in the world can’t take the wool off of a man’s eyes when it comes to the ways of women, if he’s keen on keeping it there.”

He doesn’t have anything to say to that, but her eyes soften after a moment, returning to their original sincerity. 

“I wanted you to know that it’s possible for you to be happy here, Castiel. Even with the way things have to be. At the end of the day, you will go home and be loved. And that’s so much bigger than the secret.”

It’s the most frank way anyone has ever spoken to him, and he can only choke out a “Thank you” while she starts to make her way back towards the party, towing him behind her with a firmly clasped hand. 

“Now… where’s that punch gotten off to….”

They rejoin the party, and Cas in careful to examine Jody when Donna sees her across the room; the way she moves to meet her, how warm her smile is. He had been a fool to not see it so clearly before. 

Most of the food on the buffet table had been picked over, but Cas makes a quick plate and washes it down with a glass of punch thrust into his hands by Donna.

“Ready to go home?”

Dean comes up beside him, a sleeping Emma draped over his shoulder. Sam and Jess are nowhere to be seen, and the wedding guests have thinned. 

“I just got her back from Mrs. Moore and Jess’s aunts,” Dean says, “She’s completely out from all the attention. I think Sam and Jess already left, the animals,” he adds under his breath. 

Cas rolls his eyes, smiling despite himself. “I’ll hitch up the wagon.”

Night settled early outside, the last of winter clinging on to the new spring. He strokes Baby’s long brown mane, clucking softly to spur her over to the wagon. Dean emerges from the house, soft light from the house illuminating his and Emma’s hair as mounts the wagon seat.

“I told the Moores goodbye for you. Jody and Donna decided to walk home.This is the most action this town has seen in awhile.”

Cas laughs as Dean hands a sleeping Emma up to him so he can climb up the wagon wheel. “There was a bit of a bite to the punch.”

“My father never did trust these aristocratic types.”

Cas directs them towards home while Emma slumbers on in Dean’s lap, unaware of the jostling of the wagon. The sky is clear and its darkening reveals more stars and a full moon. The prairie is still save for a slow wind moving over the grasses like the undulations of the ocean. The homestead and barn loom in the distance after some time. 

Cas brings Baby back to the barn before joining Dean in the house. He leans over the crib, this time with an already sleeping Emma on her quilt. Cas approaches him. 

“The barn’s all buttoned up for the night,” he says, coming up behind him and laying a hand on his back.

“Good,” Dean says, “You keep this up I’m gonna get spoiled.”

“Oh sure,” Cas teases back, “It isn’t as though you’ve worked fifty acres of land this week.”

Dean shakes his head, taking his hand and leading them into his bedroom.Wordlessly, they toe of their shoes and fall into bed together, Dean behind Castiel with a leg tucked between his. He wraps an arm around his torso, pulling him closer.

“Stay in here with me tonight,” Dean whispers, grinning into the curve of Cas's neck.

“I shouldn’t,” Cas demurs, but he tips his head back for a kiss anyway.Dean drags his lips over Castiel’s cheek, his stubble leaving the sensitive skin tingling.The kiss is a tender, sweet thing. 

“C’mon, Cas,” Dean murmurs against his mouth, “Let’s make a little hay while the sun shines.”

Castiel cedes, and Dean eases on top of him, kissing him slowly and thoroughly. He smooths one hand up his side, and Cas shivers. Dean breaks away from his mouth after a moment to kiss up his neck. 

“Thank you–ahh.” Dean sucks at his pulse-point. “Thank you for including me today.”

Dean lifts his head, balancing on his forearms. “Cas, of course you were invited.”

“I don’t doubt it, I just–” He stops, cupping Dean’s face with his free hand. “I’m happy to be here with you, Dean.”

Dean smiles, the curve of his mouth lasting even as he dips back down to kiss him. There’s a new urgency in this kiss; he laces their fingers together and lowers himself down to press against Cas, settling between his legs. 

“If I could,” Dean stutters, in between kisses, his breath damp against Castiel’s lips, “I would–I would tell the–”

Cas surges up to claim his mouth then, kissing the words out of Dean’s mouth before they can hit the air–the knowledge Dean had meant to say them more than enough. 

He flips them over, and Dean wraps his legs around Cas's hips this time. He starts a steady rhythm with his hips, holding Dean’s gaze until he tips his head back from pleasure. He chases his lips and kisses his jaw instead, one hand threaded in Dean’s hair and the other searching for contact under Dean’s shirt. He longs for more, to have Dean laid bare before him, but he can’t stand to stop moving as long as Dean keeps moaning beneath him. 

They come together, with Cas's face against Dean’s shoulder. He’s unable to kiss Dean before he hears it–an undeniable declaration that burrows deep until Cas feels it against his bones.

“I love you. _God,_ I love you…”

* * *

 

 

“Happy birthday, Emma!”

Emma squeals her delight, kicking in her highchair and gnawing on the tiny wooden spoon that Dean had whittled for her.His baby girl is getting more and more independent, even if most of the mashed green beans she insists on serving herself wind up flung across the kitchen.

“I remember when she could barely hold her head up.”Cas is watching them fondly from the stove, where he’s just finishing dinner for the grown ups at the table.He offers Dean a taste of the soup they’d thrown together from last night’s leftover chicken. 

“You’re telling me,” Dean says, sampling the hot broth, “Maybe a pinch more salt, but it’s darn good.”

“Pa.”

“What’s that, Half-pint?” Dean turns back to see what Emma needs, freezing when he realizes what just transpired. 

“Pa,” Emma repeats impatiently, making a grabby gesture at him with her empty hand.Dean looks at Cas, who’s just as wide eyed as he is. 

“Say that again, Emma?” Dean asks, scooting close to his daughter’s high chair.

Emma pats Dean’s cheek with a sticky hand.“Pa,” she declares. 

Castiel’s hand lands on his shoulder, warm and supportive as Dean blinks tears out of his eyes and smiles.

“That’s right, baby,” Dean says, voice rough as he kisses Emma’s chubby fingers, “I’m Pa.” 

A week later Emma takes a series of stumbling steps right into Castiel’s knees.

“Careful, sweetheart,” Dean reminds her from the stove where he's working on supper, but Emma's attentions are aimed straight up at Cas.

“‘As,” she chastises him, exasperated at this unforeseen obstacle.

“Apologies, miss.”Cas stands still and lets Emma use him for balance until she’s off again, headed unsteadily for Marta the rag doll on the other side of the room.

Destination reached, Emma plops down on her bottom, babbling conversationally to her doll. 

“You make a pretty good fence post there,” Dean says with a grin when Cas doesn't budge.He’s about to fling a carrot at him just to get his attention when he realizes Cas is beaming at Emma, and he has tears in his eyes.

Dean lets him be, a warm feeling squirming in his chest.If he spends the next few days practicing “C-c-cas, baby girl, hard ‘c’” with Emma while Castiel is in the barn, well. 

Nobody needs to be the wiser.


	5. Summer

The sun hangs low in the late afternoon sky, the heat of summer set in with the first week of June even as the wildflowers continue to bloom on the open prairie. With the seeding done, Emma spends her days at the homestead with them while they do odd jobs and pray for rain.

While she naps, they venture out to the paddock to fix a loose post in the fence that could go down with just one temper tantrum from Betsy. It’s rotted out from the winter snow, and Dean has a new post to replace it. He kneels on the ground, cutting the notch by sight alone while Cas hacks out the old post. 

They work in silence, and Dean relishes in the comfort of getting a straightforward job done. Cas wanders over to the water pump after successfully rooting out the old post, promising Dean a somewhat cool drink. 

Dean wipes the sweat from his brow with the back of his wrist. Sam and Jess had promised to visit after church tomorrow, and he’s trying to think of what they could pull together at the last minute for Sunday dinner. There’s fresh bread and butter of course, and one of the old hens was looking down in the mouth–maybe he could figure out his Ma’s old fried chicken recipe...

“Dean.” 

Dean drops his hammer at the tone of Cas's voice and rises to see Cas standing stock still at the edge of the yard, face to face with Lydia Winchester.She’s surveying Castiel, arms crossed over a blue dress she didn’t have when she left.Her pointed gaze is offset by her soft auburn hair, pinned up just as it was the day she and Dean were married. 

“I see the shirt I made is being put to good use,” she says, eyes finally shifting to Dean.He squares up, crossing his own arms. 

“You didn’t take it with you when you left,” he replies, “And as I recall, we ‘owed each other nothing’.”

Lydia’s eyes flash but Dean stands his ground.She’s not the wronged one here.

“I’ll...check on the house,” Cas interjects, carefully not mentioning Emma by name, which Dean is grateful for, “Unless, Dean, you want me to-”

“No,” Dean says, “Thanks, Cas.That’ll be helpful.” 

It kills Dean not to reassure him with touch, and Castiel must feel the same impulse, as he makes an aborted step towards Dean before offering a jerky nod and heading for the house.

“You aren’t going to introduce me to your friend?” Lydia asks, watching Cas's retreating back.Dean steps into her line of sight, feeling strangely protective. 

“He knows who you are.”

Silence falls again.

“You look well,” Lydia offers. 

“Don’t sound so disappointed.”Dean shouldn’t snap.He should school the heat from his voice.He _should_ be on bended knee, begging his lawful wife to return to their home and care for their child, but even after a year’s gap the mere sight of Lydia’s face is enough to reignite the anger Dean thought had gone long dormant.

“I’m not,” she replies, sharp, “At least, I don’t think I am.I’m honestly not sure if I would have been happier to find you broken.But then, I guess that’s the problem, isn’t it?”

“You mean your complete indifference to the man you gave a marriage vow to?” Dean snaps back, “You’re the mother of my child and you don’t give a damn about me.I’d call that a problem, Lydia.”

Lydia looks away.“I’m no one’s mother.”

“You made that pretty clear.”The anger is finally bubbling up in earnest.“You left her _alone_.In an empty house with the door unlatched.”

“For a few minutes” Lydia protests, “You told me what time you were coming in.”

“That’s not the point,” Dean shouts, “You _left_ her.You looked into her eyes, the child that _we_ made, and you dropped her in her crib with that damn bottle and you _left_.Emma cried for you.She cried for _days_ , and you don’t even care.”

“Did she live?” Lydia asks, and Dean is so taken aback that he sputters. 

“What are you talking about?”

“You haven’t said,” Lydia replies, “Did she survive the winter?I heard it was a hard snow.”

Dean feels the strangest urge to cross himself, as he’s seen Cas do on more than one occasion when an ill will has been spoken carelessly.Lydia asks after their child’s life like he would ask after a neighbor’s barn cat. 

“She had her first birthday a few weeks back,” he manages to reply, “Healthy as can be.”

“That’s good.”Lydia still looks unsure, but she smiles faintly.“I’m glad.”

Dean sighs, pushing the sweat damp hair from his eyes.Lydia’s words are leaving him turned in circles.“Do you want to come back?”

It’s not a question Lydia expected, judging by his wife’s look of alarm.

“What?”

“Are. you. here,” Dean repeats slowly, “Because. you. want. to. come. back.” 

“What if I said yes?”

Dean stares at the woman he once thought he could love.After a few seconds he clenches his jaw, and steps aside, leaving the path to the farmhouse clear.

“After everything I’ve done,” Lydia says, “You would let me back into your home.”

“It was supposed to be _our_ home,” Dean mutters.

“Answer me.”

“Yes.”

“Into your bed?”

“What?”

“As man and wife.”

“What else would I do, make you sleep in the hayloft?” Dean snaps, “You’re worried I’d deny you children, what, out of spite?You don’t even want the one we have!”

Lydia doesn’t rise to Dean’s anger.

“I thought I would arrive here to face a divorce.”

Dean thinks of Castiel.Of Ellen and Sam with their pointed comments on remarriage.“I don’t want a divorce.”

“Do you want me to come back?” 

“I want Emma to have a mother,” Dean replies, eyes on the packed earth at his feet, “I want her spared the shame of explaining why you’re gone.”

The waiting silence threatens to smother him.Dean waits for a reply, his thoughts torn between his lover and his child, both in the house waiting to hear what course their lives will take from this moment forward.

“I can’t.”

The first thing Dean feels is relief, followed by a wash of self-loathing.

“You can’t, or you don’t want to?”

“I don’t want to.”

“Then why are you here?”

“Is Emma well?” she asks at last, “Is she happy?”

As quickly as Dean’s self-loathing bubbled up it’s gone, like a receding tide.Emma has survived this long without a mother.Besides, she’s had no lack of aunts and uncles and godmothers on her side.Honorary as they may be, they’ll serve her better than a reluctant Lydia. And they have Cas now.Dean and Emma will carry on as they always have.

“I reckon she is.”

Lydia nods, satisfied. 

Dean shakes his head.“I don’t understand you.”

Lydia smiles, and it’s impossibly sad.

“I know.”

Their words run out, anger cooled and questions answered.Dean isn’t inviting Lydia into the house, and she doesn’t seem to expect it.There is nothing left to connect them but for the contract in the church office and the child sleeping in the farmhouse.

“Are you staying in town?” Dean asks, grimacing to think of what neighbors already spotted her heading for his land.

“Only for the day.I didn’t take a room.”

“I can give you a ride back.”

“I walked here,” Lydia points out, “I can walk back just as well.”

“Have a sip of water, then,” Dean urges, “It’ll only stir gossip if the neighbors find you passed out on the side of the road in this heat.”

Still reluctant, Lydia nods, and Dean follows her the short distance to the barnyard proper.

Eyes on the ground, Dean doesn’t see that Lydia’s stopped walking, and nearly trips. 

“Ah.”

“What?”

“I see now,” Lydia says, and Dean’s heart stops when he follows her gaze and sees Cas watching through the open doorway of the lean-to with Emma in his arms.The scene is too familiar, for a supposed farm hand to be holding his employer’s child.Emma is too comfortable nestled against Cas's chest, playing with the strings of his hat.

“I see now why a divorce would be...inconvenient.”

His gut full of ice, Dean opens his mouth to deny Lydia’s words, only to catch Cas's wide eyed stare.He’s terrified, the question clear. _Is she staying?_

Urgently Dean shakes his head, and Cas turns away, murmuring something to Emma, though his gaze doesn’t leave Dean’s until he vanishes from the doorway.How is Dean to tell him that their worst fear is passed, only for a worse one to take it’s place.

“Lydia.”

“I know where the water pump is,” Lydia says, “You should go reassure him.I’m leaving on the evening train.”

“It’s not what you think—”

“Goodbye, Dean.”

Dean stands frozen as Lydia has her drink and goes, vanishing as quickly as she arrived.He feels distant, like he’s watching his body from above, as he enters the house and accepts a cheerful Emma into his arms.Cas pulls him in for a soft kiss, his eyes full of relief.Dean can feel the press of his lips but he doesn’t get to enjoy the warmth and peace that he’s come to associate with touching Cas.

“Dean?”Cas's hands are firm at his waist.Dean wants to offer him reassurance.He wants to hold him close with Emma celebrate the end of their endless uncertainty. 

“We should finish the fence post,” is all he can manage.Castiel frowns, but he strokes his thumb over the curve of Dean’s cheekbone, eyes weighted with understanding.

“Alright.”

They take Emma out to the yard with them to finish the short project, setting her down with a blanket on a fresh patch of grass.It’s near sunset by the time the paddock fence is righted, and still Dean hasn’t been able to say a word that isn’t asking for a tool or checking on Emma.

“Looks good,” he says, and they head back inside.

They should be working on supper by now, but Dean could hardly eat, with too many of the day’s events still unresolved.Cas is on tenterhooks, having caught on to Dean’s anxiety.Even Emma is subdued, quietly playing with her doll on the floor.Restless, Dean parts the curtains to his room.

Still laid out on the bed he made this morning is the quilt Emma was conceived under.Dean hadn’t put much thought to it, the quilt Lydia made to warm their marriage bed.He’s slept under it, sweat out a fever covered by it.He and Cas have made love on it, more than once. 

Now it seems heavy, suffocating in the room.On an impulse Dean pulls it from the bed, yanking up the carefully tucked corners of the mattress.He folds it roughly, sitting on the edge of the bed.The weight of the material is heavy against his thighs. 

“Dean?”Cas is in the doorway, staring at the quilt in Dean’s lap.

“This was our wedding quilt.”Dean fingers the red and gold calico squares, tracing the even rows of stitching. 

“I know,” Castiel begins, hesitant, “I know this must be...confusing for you.If you’re angry or, or disappointed?I understand.”

“I...don’t know what to feel.”Dean’s fists clench in the quilted material. 

“Dean.”

“She saw you,” Dean bites out, “With Emma.Just for a damn second.It should have been nothing.”

Cas blanches.“But?” 

“She knew.” The dormant fear threatens to punch through the surface.“She guessed it without a blink.I couldn’t deny it.I wasn’t quick enough.”

“What are we going to do?”

Dean stares at the quilt in his lap.He gathers it up in his arms. 

“The only thing I can do.” 

* * *

 

 

Castiel paces around the house, pushing in chairs and and pulling them out only to push them in again. He starts to stoke a fire, but then abandons it. Emma is content with a bottle and a few pieces of bread for supper, and his stomach roils with anything but hunger. He starts toward the front door instead with a tin pail full of grease to get rid of the squeak in the door hinge Dean had meaning to do that afternoon. The sun disappears over the horizon while he goes about his work, and Emma crawls around on her quilt, a safe distance away from his frenzied working. 

He works the grease into the hinges, moving the door back and forth. 

_Castiel lifts his face to the sun, closing his eyes and wishing that he were anywhere else in the world. He wishes he could turn back the clock, and live a select number of years again, changing nothing. Only relishing._

_“Castiel,” Ezekiel pronounces his full name carefully, “I confess I would like to know your thoughts.”_

_Castiel sighs, dropping his hands from his hips and rubbing his eyes. Only Zeke had spoken thus far, giving excuses._

_“I understand our position, Zeke.” His voice is even and soft now, whereas it had cracked light broken glass before. “I only wish you had told me before my sister had read it to me from the society newspaper across the breakfast table.”_

_Zeke blanches at that, running a hand through his russet-colored hair. Cas silently curses the jump in his heart. He always loves what he knows he can’t have._

_“You should have told me first,” he repeats._

_“I thought,” Zeke says, “Hannah knows about us, she knows what’s at stake–”_

_Castiel holds up a hand. “No. I won’t add adultery to the list of my sins.”_

_Ezekiel’s eyes darken. “Was this just a sin to you?”_

_“It feels like it now.”_

The door hangs straight and without a sound when he pulls it shut. Dean is nowhere in sight, and the vision of Lydia by the barnyard, watching him with her child in his arms plays again and again before his eyes. 

He doesn’t feel dirty now, as he had when Ezekiel had told him that he would be marrying Hannah. His shoulders sag with heartbreak, knowing the worst will come when Lydia and Dean would return together to reestablish their bond. Where would his and Dean’s conversation occur? Would he ask him to stay for the harvest before it became just too hard? Or was the distraction worth it to make it through the winter again?

“‘As!”

The word is less his name and more high-pitched yell. He smiles, wiping his hands and striding over to where Emma crawls under the table, staring at him with a wide smile.

“Ok you.” He picks her up, swinging her around his front to her delight as shown with her bubbly laughter. He sits down in one of the rocking chairs, setting her on his knee. 

“Were you happy to see your Mama again?” he asks, voice thick. 

Emma sucks a finger into her mouth, staring up at him intently. 

He shakes his head, laughing to himself. They fetch her doll across the room at her insistence before settling back in the rocking chair. Her eyes are at half-mast as she cradles her doll, and he realizes that she should be already in bed. He takes a deep breath and sighs, cradling Emma in his arms. 

He hums a tune his mother used to sing to him as she fusses slowly with the doll’s dress. When he reaches the end her eyes are heavy and the doll falls to the floor. 

The dim light of the kerosene lamp illuminates her blonde curls. He rises, bringing her over to her crib and laying her down on the quilt. He tucks her doll in beside her. 

He checks to make sure the embers in the stove have completely died away before extinguishing the lamp. Darkness hangs heavy over the still house, the quiet sound of Emma’s even breathing steady in the night.

Castiel takes one last look around the small homestead, standing in the doorway with the moonlight at his back. He pulls the door shut, the familiar click of the latch unusually loud. He starts toward the barn, each step more labored than the last. 

* * *

 

 

Dean pushes Jet through Ava at a gallop, tying him up out front of the depot just as the last train of the evening pulls into town.The sun is near set, a few hanging lanterns lit to give light to the handful of passengers disembarking. 

Lydia is getting ready to board, handing a small suitcase to a conductor.

“Wait,” Dean calls, breathless as he runs to the platform from the street.Lydia’s head snaps toward him, her brows drawn together in confusion.As he draws near he sees the conductor express some concern, but Lydia waves him away. 

“What do you want, Dean?”

Words bottle up in his throat.He holds out the quilt, silent. 

“That doesn’t belong to me.” 

“You made it, it should be yours,” Dean says, “Sell it in the next town if you like, but I don’t want it.”

Lydia reluctantly steps forward to accept patchwork quilt.She glances over her shoulder to make sure the conductor has moved on to help another passenger before meeting his gaze, her gray eyes uncertain.

“You didn’t come here to give me a wedding keepsake.” 

Dean shakes his head, swallowing his nerves.

“I married you in good faith,” he says, “I don’t think you hate me.And if you do, it’s not enough to put Emma through what would happen if you revealed us.”

“Ask me what you want to ask.”

What he needs to say can only be whispered, even here in the dark of the evening with only a few sleepy passengers in sight.

“Don’t come back,” Dean pleads, closing Lydia’s hands around the folded quilt, “If you know, then you know what I need, and that’s peace.Don’t take it from me.Let us be.”

Dean is more vulnerable before his wife now than he ever was in their marriage bed.If Lydia takes any pleasure in her position of power, she doesn’t show it.

“I know what you must think of me,” she says, gaze weighted with self-awareness that Dean hasn’t seen from her since she appeared this morning, “But I made my choice.You’ve made yours.I find myself in no position to judge you, nor do I wish you ill.”

“We will live or die by your word.”The fear strangling Dean’s belly gives one last roil.

Lydia promises, “You won’t hear from me again.” 

The train car doors open, welcoming the sparse outgoing passengers. 

“I guess this is goodbye, then.” Lydia looks toward the waiting train, and Dean can’t keep the words from spilling out.

“I wouldn’t change any of it.”

Lydia turns back.“What?”

“I had never hurt,” Dean says, “The way you hurt me the day you left us.But you also gave me the greatest joy of my life, and I’m grateful for her, even now.I wouldn’t change a thing.”

“I think we’re very different people, you and I,” Lydia says, holding the quilt against her chest.

“I think you’re right,” Dean agrees.The train whistle blows and he gives her a hand stepping up the short stair to her car. 

“I hope you find what you’re looking for,”Dean says, releasing his wife’s hand as the train pulls away from the station.Lydia waves goodbye, a few loose tendrils of her red hair stirring in the nighttime breeze.Dean watches her until the train is only a speck in the distance.

The ride back to his land is a relief compared to his mad dash to catch Lydia’s train.Dean lets Jet slow to a trot once they’re free of town, the stars bright over the open prairie.For the first time in a year, the black cloud of Dean’s marriage and Emma’s undecided future is gone, and never to return, if Lydia keeps her promise.Dean opts to trust her word.He has little other choice. 

Dean’s relief is tempered when he arrives home to find the house dark.A peek inside reveals Emma sleeping peacefully in her crib, but Cas is nowhere to be seen.Dean leaves Jet in the paddock to cool down and graze in the cool night air and makes for the barn.

He finds Castiel awake, perched on the edge of his bed.His satchel is packed at his feet.His head is bowed over his lap, and his hands are folded, either in prayer or defeat.

“Cas?” Dean’s heart is in his throat.“What are you doing?”

Cas's head snaps up, and he stares at Dean, brow furrowed in confusion. 

“Dean,” he replies, then, looking behind Dean into the barn, “Where’s Lydia?”

“Lydia?”Dean repeats, confused, “She’s on the train east.Probably almost to Kansas City by now.”

A strange kind of shudder ripples through Castiel, and he drops his face into his hands with a sound that Dean could only call a sob. 

“What,” Dean asks, “What happened?”

“When you left,” Cas admits, “I-I thought you changed your mind.”

Dean can only shake his head.He could never.

“I thought you meant to bring her back.To save us.Because she saw me.”

“It wasn’t your fault.” Dean touches a trembling hand to the crown of Cas's head.Tips his chin up.Wills him to believe his words. 

“I couldn’t stand in the way,” Castiel breathes, “Not if she came back.If Emma could have—”

“Lydia’s gone,” Dean promises, “For good.She gave me her word.We’re safe.”

Cas shakes his head, distraught.“For now.It’s always temporary.”

“Maybe,” Dean says, “Maybe.But we’ll deal with it.Together.” 

When Cas doesn’t push him away Dean drops to his knees.He pulls Castiel’s hands to his face.Kisses his palms. 

“Don’t leave,” Dean begs him, “Not now.”

“I should,” Cas replies, eyes closed, “It would be the right thing.”

Dean shakes his head.“No,” he says, “Not for me.I need you.”

Cas leans forward, hands shifting.One to cradle the back of Dean’s neck, the other to touch softly at Dean’s bottom lip. 

“I need you, too.”

Cas lets out a soft, vulnerable noise when Dean sucks one of his fingers into his mouth.Dean tongues over the pad of Cas's forefinger, and nips at the webbing between his finger and thumb before taking the digit back into his mouth with an intentional suction that has Castiel’s breath hitching and his other hand going tight at the base of Dean’s skull. 

Cas's eyes are dark, and Dean is already aching for him.Bold, he traces Cas's inseam to the center of him, where he can feel his arousal. 

“Let me,” Dean pleads, leaning in to nuzzle the hardness in Cas's trousers.His mouth is _watering_.“I need it.Cas, please.”

Cas nods and Dean fumbles at the fastenings of his pants, frantic, until finally, _finally_ , Cas is freed from his drawers and Dean can pull him between his lips. 

Dean has no finesse.He is in no doubt as to the lack of his own skill but he needs to offer Castiel something and this is it.His own jealous, fragile self.Dean can’t stop shaking, but his hands are steady enough to pull Cas's hips closer to the edge of the bed.He can push himself further onto Castiel’s cock until he’s near choking and tears blur his vision.

“ _Dean_.”Castiel’s grip is almost too tight against his scalp.It stings. 

Dean moans around the thickness is his mouth.It’s so good.He feels owned and he needs it so bad.He moves up and down the length of Castiel’s cock, hollowing his cheeks as best he can and drawing every sweet sound from Cas's lips that he can manage. 

“Touch yourself,” Cas orders him, and Dean presses the heel of his hand to the bulge in his trousers and moans again.He labors, pleasuring Castiel and himself, until stars blink in his vision and he thinks he might spend himself without even unbuttoning his pants.He makes another sound, muffled by Cas's cock filling his mouth, this one questioning.Asking permission. 

“Let me see you,” Castiel pleads in between panting breaths, “I want to see you come while your mouth is full of me.”

Dean chokes, not on the cock between his lips but on the sudden swell of his own orgasm.He hardly gets his own fly open before he’s spilling white onto the packed earth of the barn floor, Castiel nearly slipping out of his mouth as pleasure wracks his body. 

“Beautiful,” Castiel breathes, stroking through Dean’s hair as he shivers through it, near collapsed in the vee of Cas's thighs.Dean breathes, clinging until he can regain some of his senses.

He noses under Cas's shirt, dragging his lips against soft skin over firm muscle.With his hands braced on Castiel’s heavy thighs Dean presses a kiss to the wet tip of his cock, still hard and urgently awaiting Dean’s attentions.

“I can finish—” Castiel offers, reaching for himself, but Dean shakes his head, knocking Cas's hand away.

“Let me have it,” he begs, Cas's arousal leaving a wet trail over his cheek and lips.

Castiel nods, stroking through his hair once before pressing against the back of Dean’s head, pulling him back down onto his cock with the gentle force Dean needs and doesn’t deserve.

Cas only manages a few rocking thrusts before his grip on the back of Dean’s head tightens and he’s flooding Dean’s mouth with his release.Dean can’t swallow fast enough, unprepared for the new and bitter taste, and a few drops of white dribble down his chin.

“You’re so good _._ ” Cas doesn’t look away as his grip slackens, the tension of his orgasm giving way to loose pleasure. He cradles Dean’s jaw between his palms, stealing the taste of himself from Dean’s lips.

“Stay,” Dean asks, voice hoarse as he clings to Castiel’s thighs, “Stay with me.Stay with us.”

“How could I leave you now?” Cas replies, still breathing hard, a flush high in his cheeks, “How could I ever?”

The relief leaves Dean weak.He kneels between Cas's thighs, his lover’s release still sticky on his lips and chin, and shakes.This may be the most carnal thing he has ever done. 

He doesn't regret it.This is _Cas_.Dean wants him.He _needs_ him, and today, oh _god_ , today he nearly lost him, but the magnitude of it, of the act he started and damned well finished all on his own, catches up to him all of the sudden.

Dean realizes that he’s crying, and hides his tears in the crease of Cas's hip.The day of tension had left him so cold and now it feels like he’s burning up.He feels red and raw, still nearly suffocated by the fear of a danger already passed by.Dean cries like a child with his head in Castiel’s lap, his soft cock nearly touching Dean’s cheek.

Cas curls over him, sheltering him in his moment of weakness.

“I’m not hers,” Dean sobs, safe at last in the dark, “I’m yours, Cas.Only yours.”

“Shh,” Castiel soothes him, stroking his hair and holding him close, “I have you.”

Cas comforts him until Dean’s breathing settles and his hysteria gives way to bone-deep exhaustion.They tidy themselves up as much as they can, straightening their clothes and fastening their trousers. 

“Come inside?” Dean asks eventually, wiping his eyes, “I don’t want to leave Emma alone in the house, but I...I can’t-”

Castiel kisses the top of his head.“Let’s go.”

Dean leads Cas back through the yard to the house, keeping their fingers intertwined with a near clinging grip.They only stop to let Dean give his face and hands a good scrub at the water pump. 

They come in the lean-to door to hear Emma fussing in her crib.Dean goes to her immediately while Cas lights a kerosene lamp to illuminate the dark house. 

“Shh, sweetheart,” Dean soothes, picking Emma up quilt and all to hold her tight against his chest, “Shh, I’m here.”

Emma’s whimpers settle down quickly, reassured by Dean’s presence.“Pabahabh,” she murmurs, gripping tight to Dean’s shirt. 

“That’s right, Em,” Dean replies, “Pa’s here.” 

“I didn’t mean to leave her alone,” Cas apologizes, “I just couldn’t be in the house if you came back with Lydia—”

“Don’t think on it,” Dean chides gently, turning to welcome Castiel closer, “Emma’s just fine, aren’t you honey?”

Emma spots Cas and breaks out into a sleepy smile, reaching out with one chubby hand. 

“‘As,” she demands, until Cas is close enough to offer her his finger to grip. 

“Hello, my darling,” he murmurs with a smile, guiding Emma’s fingers to his lips so he can give them a kiss, much to her delight, “I’m sorry I left you earlier.”

Castiel’s eyes are bright, and Dean is twisted with guilt to imagine him alone in the house with Emma, thinking he had to say goodbye.He pulls Cas nearer still, Emma held safe between them. 

“I’m not sure how I would have brought myself to leave,” Cas admits, staring down at Emma, “But I would have done it.For her.”

“You don’t have to, though,” Dean reminds him, “We’re alright.”

“Yes,” Cas agrees, “Yes, I suppose the storm has passed us by.”

Dean cups his hand to the back of Cas's neck, stroking his fingers through the hair at his nape.Cas sighs and leans in until their foreheads touch, shaking his head lightly with a breathy laugh.It being nearly midnight Emma is getting understandably sleepy now that she’s ascertained the location of her two favorite people, and she settles into a warm weight on Dean’s chest.It’s been a long day for them all, and Dean can feel it down to his very bones. 

“Let’s go to bed,” he says.

This proves a moment’s challenge when Dean attempts to return Emma to her crib.Nearly asleep in his arms just a moment ago, any move to put her down now is greeted with a whimper that threatens to swell into a full blown fit. 

“Alright, alright,” Dean sighs, admitting defeat, “It’s been a hell of a day.We can tuck you in with us tonight.Just this once.”

Emma clings happily as Dean nudges aside the curtain to his bedroom.He manages to light the kerosene lamp only to turn and find Castiel hesitating in the doorway. 

“Cas?”

“You and Emma should stay in here, together,” he says, “I shouldn’t—I mean it wouldn’t be—”

Crossing the room again, Dean silences him with a kiss.“C’mon,” he murmurs. 

Dean turns down the sheets on the bed.They’ll have to choose another quilt from his trunk in the morning to cover the thin cotton. 

He makes a little space between the two pillows at the head of the bed and deposits Emma on her back.She kicks and babbles sleepily while Dean strips off his shirt and trousers and climbs in beside her in his undershirt and drawers.

“Cas,” Dean prompts, reaching one arm out past Emma to pat the other side of the double bed in invitation.Cas sighs in exasperation, but the corners of his mouth are ticked up in a smile as he unclips his suspenders and steps out of his work pants.He folds them neatly over the end of the bed before slipping under the sheets with Dean and Emma.

“There you are,” Dean whispers, tangling their bare feet under the covers.Cas cups Dean’s jaw tenderly, Emma already sleeping soundly between them.He leans over the spare space between their pillows, pressing a soft kiss to Dean’s mouth.Then, glancing up like he means to ask permission, Cas presses his lips equally gently to the crown of Emma’s head before settling into his own pillow. 

Dean smiles, holding his family close as he’s pulled into a peaceful sleep.

* * *

 

 

It’s with a heavy heart that Castiel slips out of bed the next morning, the humid morning chill confining him to the warmth of the bed until the second rooster crowing. He steps quietly around the room, gathering his pants and suspenders as the world outside begins to wake up. Emma slumbers on next to Dean, her usually busy little body still. Dean’s face is obscured by a pillow, but his back moves under his shirt with the deep inhalations and exhalations of sleep. Cas’s gaze lingers on them before he ducks through the curtain into the large room. 

He steps into his pants and clips on his suspenders before heading out into the dawn, the sun barely peeking over the horizon. The grass crunches under his feet, dry from a few weeks with no rain. There would be time to worry about that, but he pushes it to the back of his mind for now. 

He turns the horses out into the barnyard for a drink, and milks Betsy with little trouble. She barely gives him a second look when he sidles up next to her with the milking stool, making him wonder if everyone is feeling just a little bit softer today. 

The chores done, he meanders around the barn, tidying up and Jet and Baby’s stall where they had matted up their hay in the night. By the time the sun begins its ascent, his already ripe shirt is damp with perspiration. He stops in his bedroom, rummaging through his knapsack to find a fresh one. His hands rasps against something smooth at the bottom of the bag, unexpected amongst the linens and his few books. His eyebrows knit together in confusion, and he carefully fishes out the piece of paper without ripping it. 

His stomach tightens as he reads the greeting, his sister’s name sitting at the top of a page otherwise blank where he had written it almost a year ago. He stares at it, worrying at his bottom lip. He reaches back into his bag for his pencil, setting it to the paper.

Soon after, the sun peeks through the shrunken slats of the barn, rising in earnest. Cas rises, depositing his pencil back in his bag and tucking the letter into his back pocket. 

The sun is warm against the back of his neck while he pumps water into the bucket for their morning oatmeal. He washes the sweat away from his face and up his arms to his rolled-up sleeves. He takes his two buckets in hand and heads back up to the house. 

“I can’t believe you let us sleep in like that,” Dean says as he comes through the door, Emma squinting sleepily on his hip. His hair is mussed from sleep. 

“I am nothing if not compassionate,” Cas says, setting down the milk and water before walking over to steal a kiss. 

Dean hums against his lips. “Good morning,” he says when Cas breaks away.

“Good morning.”

They set to work, Cas pouring water into the dutch oven while Dean skims the cream off of the top. 

“What’s that?”

Dean gestures to the table where Cas had deposited the letter. Cas smiles, turning back to the stove where he scoops oatmeal into the boiling water. 

“You should read it.”

Emma bangs her spoon against her tray table and the paper rustles as Dean opens the letter. Cas stirs the oatmeal, looking out the window to where Jet and Baby graze in the low grass. The sky is a brilliant blue, warming the earth as it rises. 

Hands circle his waist from behind, and Dean presses his lips to the side of Cas’s neck. Cas’s heart settles as he leans into the touch. 

“Thank you,” Dean breathes. 

Cas turns, threading his fingers with Dean’s. The light from the window reflects off of of Dean’s eyes, clear and green. 

“I love you.”

Dean smiles, leaning forward until their foreheads touch.

 

_Dear Anna,_

_I’ve struggled to start this letter many times, as the normal greetings do not seem to suffice in this situation. I hope this letter has found you well, and feeling charitable of spirit, as I write to ask your forgiveness for the transgressions of my past._

_I apologize for leaving home in the manner that I did. I can offer no excuses except to assure you that abandoning your company caused in me as near a depth of anguish as the events which led me to take flight in the first place._

_I pray that you have read this far, as I wish to tell you of my life now. Fear not, dear sister, for it is one of honest work and simple joy._

_This last year I have made my home on the Kansas prairie. I live a few miles from a settled town of God-fearing people who cared for my well-being as soon as my train entered the station. I farm the land, and help to raise a beautiful girl. I have the love of a truly good person, and know the warmth of a good home. Though I may have trials yet to face, I will not face them alone._

_I have lived in a way that would not make you proud, but in these past twelve months I have found myself profoundly changed. I can only pray that the man I am today may be worthy ofyour forgiveness as I endeavor to earn back your love._

_I eagerly await your response._

_Your brother,_

_Castiel_


End file.
